


Seawater Tea

by lmeden



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hd_smoochfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:20:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/lmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is their last assignment as Trainee Aurors and the only time they will have to work together (Draco hopes), but then the storm arrives, and Draco’s life gets much more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seawater Tea

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 hd_smoochfest at livejournal.

Draco braced the rickety café tale until it stopped wobbling, and his quill scratched across the parchment, cramped because he only had five lines in which to write the evaluation. 

_Potter is extremely unprofessional to both colleagues and suspects. He displays a casual familiarity with suspects that can only lead the observer to conclude some prior acquaintance; this familiarity seems to serve no purpose beyond entertaining Potter, as the suspects he interviews do not confess or volunteer any information beyond that which would be expected._

Draco paused and touched the feather to his lips. What else? 

He could go on about Potter’s daily state of dress, which was abominable and made Draco wish he could stand five feet away from him at all times. His hair was constantly mussed, so much so that Draco was beginning to suspect Potter wanked off every time he used the loo. It drove Draco absolutely mad, how Potter’s robes were always buttoned wrong, or his collar wrinkled, or his shoes covered in mud. It made Draco want grasp him and _fix him_.

If only he could have been partners with Pansy, or even Blaise. But of course, neither was in training to be an Auror, like Draco was, so that was a logistical impossibility. Draco often wished he’d chosen to move to the Continent with Pansy and had taken up photography to accompany the scandalous editorials she wrote for some terrible French rag. He could have even sacrificed himself and done absolutely nothing with his life, simply joined Blaise in his professional lounging about in his manse, smoking, drinking, and condescending to everything in sight. 

He’d thought he could change his life by becoming an Auror, rise from the ashes of his family’s fall from grace triumphant. He would have saved lives, or uncovered corruption, and the _Prophet_ would have dedicated the entire front page to him and no one, _no one_ would have looked down at him again. 

Instead he’d been assigned Potter. Whom Draco had to work with in order to become a full Auror and who seemed determined to make Draco fail by virtue of his sheer presence. 

Draco realized he’d begun nibbling on the end of the feather, and set his self-inking quill back to parchment. 

_Potter’s behavior with his colleagues is, if anything, utterly contemptuous; he remains consistently cool to co-workers and often treats--_

Draco’s words smeared as his parchment disappeared from under his pen. He yelped and grabbed at it, only to pull back when he saw Potter holding it up and reading, eyebrows rising higher on his forehead with every passing second. Draco flushed and sat back in his chair, clenching his quill in his fist. 

Potter finally turned and slapped the parchment down in front of Draco, who jerked his chin up but couldn’t seem to stop slouching. 

“What’s this?” Potter asked. 

Draco sneered. “The evaluation paperwork, Potter. We _are_ supposed to fill out an evaluation for each Auror-in-Training we’re partnered with. Given that you’ve been working with different partners for a year now, one would think you’d learned the way things worked. But…oh.” Draco paused, and pretended to have a revelation, widening his eyes dramatically and leaning towards Potter. “You don’t _have_ to work like the rest of us, do you?”

He snatched for his parchment, but Potter snatched it back. “You have been my partner for _less than a day_ , Malfoy,” he hissed, leaning close. “I have no idea what possessed you to write this shite – actually, what am I saying, I do know why you wrote it. But I’m not going to allow you to cock up my last partnership before I graduate. I’m going to be a full Auror by the end of this month, with or without you.” He straightened and began to tear the parchment into pieces. “So you can just write your evaluation again.”

Draco made a wordless sound of protest and pushed up from his seat. He snatched at the falling paper and then threw the pieces away. “That was my only copy of the form!” he screeched, shocked beyond self-consciousness. 

Potter wrenched the last bits of the form into shreds and threw them at Draco’s face. “Then go ask Luna for another one,” he said.

Draco was so incensed he had to physically restrain himself from either: slapping Potter across the face like a girl, or cursing him until he just expired, right there, on the cobblestones in the middle of the street. Which was a terrible idea, really, but at the moment he wanted to _so badly_. 

“Oh yes,” he hissed instead. “I’m sure Lovegood would get you another copy if you asked. She’d do anything for you. Have you fucked her yet?” 

Draco didn’t know what he was saying, to be honest. His words were drowned out by the roar in his ears. He just liked the way Potter’s eyes darkened and how he twitched. 

“How dare you?” Potter stepped forward and slammed his hands down across from Draco. “You know nothing. Nothing, Malfoy, you never have. You keep your mouth shut and your fucking nose out of my business and maybe I won’t have you kicked out of the program. You think I couldn’t?”

Draco’s mouth snapped shut and he ground his teeth. Three years of study, all for nothing. Potter would have him thrown out, dishonorably discharged, and Draco would go back to being _nothing_.

“Nothing, am I? Well, I know something, Potter. I know that you’ll fuck anything resembling a girl, and have, since the Weaslette dumped you. Why not _Lovegood_?”

Potter turned mid-stride and lunged at Draco. He grasped him by the robes and shoved him backwards, sent him tumbling away and into one of the metal tables outside the café. Draco heard a chair crash and scrape across the stones and pushed himself to sitting, head ringing. It only made the spinning worse. 

“I don’t want to hear your voice or see your face. I want you to be silent and I‘ll tell you what to do so that we can finish this. You have _no say_.”

Potter’s wand was out, the tip huge and wavering before Draco’s eyes. He couldn’t conjure up the fear he would have felt once, in another life. Now, he simply curled his lip, contempt boiling within, and watched Potter whip around. 

Draco pushed himself up as Potter strode away, heels clicking sharply as he walked towards the inn the Ministry had paid for them to stay in. He pulled his wand out and glanced around, but the breeze had already picked up the review forms and whisked the pieces of parchment away. He slammed his hand down on the stones. It throbbed and stung. He gritted his teeth and pulled it close, burying it under his arm. 

“Fucking bastard,” he ground out. 

-|-

“Luna!”

Draco’s knees hurt; he’d been kneeling on the stone floor of the town’s only inn for a good five minutes now. Couldn’t she hear him? 

“Luna Lovegood!”

“No need to shout, Draco,” Luna said, sweeping into view and sinking easily to her knees at the other end of the firecall. “I believe you need this form.” She held up a rolled parchment with the Auror’s seal hanging off. 

Draco blinked at her, surprised. “How…?”

She smiled at him, her gaze focused somewhere over his head. “You don’t care about how I knew what you needed, Draco. You just want the form.” 

Well, he hadn’t been about to put it that baldly, but… “Yeah, all right. Hand it over, then.” 

His tone was fond, and he smiled slightly as he reached out. He liked Luna, he truly did, and he shouldn’t have said such horrible things about her and Potter, no matter that no one whom either of them knew had been around to hear him. For all he knew, the Wrackspurts would probably carry news of his betrayal back to her, and so his smile was just the smallest part guilty. 

She folded her hands into her lap, tucking the forms under them. “You might be interested to know that Harry Flooed me half an hour ago and complained about you; he asked me to keep this form away from you.”

Draco’s face twisted. “I hope you told him to fuck himself!”

Luna blinked at him slowly. “Well, Draco, of course I didn’t. Harry is quite lovely, though he does seem to lose track of his temper at times; I’ve told him to put a Tracking Spell on it, but he never listens. No one does, to me.”

Draco sighed, and his rage drained away. Luna, he reminded himself, did not deserve this. 

“Will you give me the forms?” he asked. 

“Of course, Draco,” she said. “You’re my friend, and no matter what Harry says, I don’t think you’re an infuriating prat at all and that I should curse the forms so you can’t write on them. That would be completely impractical. Here.” She reached out and handed the forms to the fire, which carried them to Draco’s fingers.

He pulled them in and laid them carefully on the cold floor. “Thank you, Luna. This really means a lot to me.”

She smiled back. “Oh, I know, Draco. Just keep an eye out for the glitterbys. You’re very far north, you know, right in the heart of where the glitterbys live, and if you could bring back news of them it would make me very happy. Tell their Queen I sent you.” Luna pushed herself up and back and turned away from the Floo with a swish of her robes. “See you soon, Draco!”

“Bye, Luna,” Draco replied, but she was already gone. The office was quiet. 

Draco moved out of the fire and watched the flames turn slowly from green to orange. With a flick of his wand, the fire guttered and vanished, and he pushed himself to his feet, picking up the forms. He folded them and tucked them into his robes as he walked to his room, determined to prevent Potter from seizing them and doing something inexplicably violent and crass. 

Pity his room was across the hall from Potter’s and not on another continent altogether, because if Draco didn’t see Potter once in the next century, it would be too soon. 

-|-

Draco placed weights on the end of the parchment to keep it from rolling up again and picked up his quill. He stared at the white paper for a long moment, then put it down again. 

He picked it up. Sighed. 

_Dear Pansy,_

_It has been a terribly long time since we’ve spoken, hasn’t it? I wish you would firecall more often. I miss your sense of humor._

_I’m doing well, since you haven’t asked. You should recall that I am in the training program to become an Auror. I’m almost finished with it, too. Only a few weeks left to go. They’ve given me the hardest assignment yet, though, and I know you’ll sympathize. I have to work with Potter for an entire week. It’s atrocious. I don’t know what the Ministry was thinking when they set us up together, except that they want me to fail. I think that that’s pretty likely, though. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve spoken to someone, really spoken like I can with with you? It’s been since you left, Pansy. It’s been years. The Ministry hates me (maybe resentful that they couldn’t lock me away like Greg and my father after Potter testified on my behalf)._

_I can’t forgive Potter, you know. No matter that he testified for me at the trials or that he saved my life in those last, dark days. He made my life horrible at Hogwarts. I can’t help but imagine what life would have been like for us had he not been around. You and I would have been happy, Pansy. Potter wouldn’t have led his friends against us and turned us into outcasts, and our parents would have been powerful had th-_

He cut himself off and left the word unfinished. He scrubbed a hand across his face. Not, he didn’t wish for that. The Dark Lord was gone, and Draco was glad of it. He just wished everything were happier. He thought desperately for some more neutral topic. 

_How is the life of an intrepid reporter going? I’ve heard reporting can be very dangerous, especially if they ask you to go overseas and write about a war or something. But I doubt you’d allow that, my dear. If an editor so much as began to suggest you do such a thing, I bet you’d shoot him down in an instant. In fact, I bet you have the entire staff of your paper wrapped around your finger. I expect no less. Tell me anyway, no matter what the situation._

_That rag they call the Prophet is the same as usual. Articles about Potter all day and night. Thankfully, they’ve stopped printing stories about me. I mean, it isn’t as if my life was that interesting to begin with – all the stories they wrote about the ‘Death Eater’ buying supplies in Diagon or being seen walking in town were really becoming tiresome. I suppose I should be glad for Potter’s breakup with the Weaslette, for other reasons than that I revel in his misery. It took my name out of the papers. _

_Still, I’d already halted the order on the Prophet and won’t take it up again (not after all the terrible things they said), so I’m a bit behind on the news. Of course, I know all the local gossip because all I have to do is walk into town to hear what’s happening nearby (Potter and the Weasley have split for good, Shacklebolt (you’ll remember him I’m sure, for the Order) is running for Minister, and the one remaining Weasley twin is now the wealthiest man in the country. I won’t lie and say that doesn’t sting.) Speaking of Weasleys, the Weasel himself is in the Auror program with me. I was partnered with him for what turned out to be an extremely brief time. He apparently thought I was good for nothing and told me to stay back while he went to retrieve the bag the Ministry had sent us to collect. So I let him go, and when he’d been suitably beaten by the curses placed around it and had returned to me sniveling, I stepped up and had the bag within a few moments. No one can ever say Father’s education in dark curses was good for nothing. It was one of my proudest moments._

He couldn’t do it anymore. Draco tossed the quill onto the desk and ripped the parchment out from under the weights. He couldn’t lie like that – not to Pansy, and not to himself. Weasley had never come groveling to him. He’d never had any proud moments. 

He pushed his chair back and strode to the fireplace. The ink seeped from the parchment onto his fingers, staining them black, and Draco cast the crumpled letter into the fire. It sat there for a moment before lighting and folding in on itself, shriveling slowly to nothing. 

Draco sighed. He didn’t know why he still wrote to Pansy after all these years. She was gone. They hadn’t spoken in ages and hadn’t been able to write an honest letter to each other since she’d left for the Continent. It was too dangerous, with the Ministry watching his correspondence. Draco didn’t need to give them anything more to hold against him. 

He supposed it was some sort of self-therapy; that he was trying to heal his own wounds and assuage his own loneliness by writing his thoughts down. Or something like that. He didn’t know who he was trying to fool. 

He reached up and grasped his tie, turning from the fire as he worked it free. 

-|-

The strap of Draco’s bag dug into his shoulder; obviously he’d performed the Lightening Charm wrong, but he was halfway down the inn’s narrow staircase and could already see the tapping of Potter’s foot in the dining room below. He paused, not wanting to have to fix his charm in front of Potter, but not wanting to hear Potter’s whinging if he was even a moment later. 

He shifted the bag, but it barely helped, and he ended up clattering down and across the dining room floor too hard, stumbling slightly. 

He swung the bag off his shoulder, and it slammed down onto the table. Draco pulled the drawstring on the back open, feeling inside to find out just what it was that he’d shrunken improperly.

“Oh, for…” Potter sighed. 

_Ah, there._ Draco lifted the bag of food supplies out, packed away and shrunken to the size of small pouch and as heavy as if it held fifty galleons. With a wave of his wand, he fixed the spell and the bag shivered, lightened. He put it away and shouldered his bag again. Much better. 

If only he didn’t have to carry so many supplies – food, clothing, water, maps – then he wouldn’t have to worry about shrinking and spelling everything properly. It was only a training assignment, after all. He’d’ve left the food and water behind, if he’d had a choice. 

He walked across the room and caught the front door as Potter slammed it closed behind him, and followed him onto the street, scowling at Potter’s back. Potter glanced back, his own bag of supplies and clothing bouncing over his shoulder, and held up a rolled parchment. 

“We’ll be flying north,” he said. 

Draco looked at the parchment in surprise. “The assignment? When did that come in?”

“This morning,” Potter said. He tossed it towards Draco, who snatched it from the air and immediately began to unroll it. “You can read it if you like.” 

It was a false report, obviously – the Ministry would never allow their Auror Trainees to take on real cases. But they had to treat the parchment like it was real – as if whatever danger the assignment mentioned was very real, so Draco read carefully. 

_Two days ago, in the town of Nimblehatch, in Northern Scotland_ (Check that off, as he and Potter were already in town.) _there was a sighting of the notorious Death Eaters Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange._ (No danger of this assignment being true, Draco reflected, as the Lestrange brothers had been dead for over three years now. He remembered quite clearly and with no little distaste how they’d wandered the Manor when the Dark Lord had been in residence. They had encouraged Draco with sickly smiles to call them ‘Ronnie’ and ‘Rabby’ the one time he’d run across them.)

He skipped past the physical descriptors – unnecessary - and found the important information. _The Lestrange brothers were last seen fleeing to the north of Scotland, over the North Sea. Your object is to locate and detain these criminals, and return them to justice alive, if possible._ Draco allowed the scroll to roll itself back up and chewed at the inside of his cheek. It was a scavenger hunt, then. 

And with the Ministry giving them so little information, it was a fitting challenge for he and Potter, and their last training mission before becoming full Aurors. If only he could have had another partner. 

Draco was tucking the parchment into his robes when he felt a soft breeze on his cheek, heard a familiar _whoosh_ , and looked up. 

Potter was shooting away on his broom, already above the rooftops of the small village and rapidly increasing the distance between them. Draco cursed, heart racing with sudden panic and hate, and pulled his own broomstick out. It expanded to full size with a snap, and he swung himself onto it.

The air forced him down against his broom, and Draco held his breath for the first ascent. When he rose above the rooftops and saw the town below him, all three streets intersecting in a small square, roofs thatched and rough, streets still packed dirt and cobbles, he leveled out and paused, looking ahead. 

The pressure lifted and he squinted, then gripped his broom with white knuckles and shot off after Potter, lips pressed tight in anger. 

-|-

Nimblehatch was the northernmost Wizarding settlement in Great Britain It was located in Scotland. It overlooked the place where the land began to break away from itself and form small isles and rocks so large they’d been named centuries ago. It contained a mix of wizards and squibs, all of a particularly hermit-like disposition, as well as a few Muggles who had wandered into the village and never left. 

Draco had thought he’d be glad to leave the town behind. But when he read the assignment, apprehension began to grow, fester slowly within him. He knew now why they’d been instructed to bring so many supplies. He and Potter had to fly out over the open ocean, find the small marker representing the Lestrange brothers, and find their way back. It seemed, quite frankly, like madness. 

-|-

Three hours after leaving Nimblehatch, they’d found nothing, not that _they_ were working as a team, anyway. The grey, flat ocean spread beneath them in all directions. Draco glanced over his shoulder and saw that the rocks of Scotland had nearly vanished, faded to a dim shadow on the horizon, and swallowed hard. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to loosen them, and reached to scrub at his face. He’d begun to fear the expression would stick, leaving his face permanently twisted in the squint he’d been using as he searched the waves below him.

His wand balanced precariously in his other hand, dipping slightly as the wind rushed around it. It still pointed straight ahead, the magic of his Point Me tugging it forward, pointing to where the Ministry’s marker lay. It had been oriented in that direction for _hours_.

Potter’s robes snapped behind him in the wake of his movement as he raced ahead. The cold bit into him, cutting through his robes though the air was thin. Draco blinked tears back and ducked his face out of the stinging wind. He glanced around, relishing the moment that was his alone, not devoted to the task that the Ministry had sent them on. On all sides, it seemed there was only the grey horizon where the sea and sky blended. 

Except for the right.

The cold fear in his stomach deepened and twisted until he realized he’d stopped breathing. He shoved his wand into his robes and urged his broom faster, catching up with Potter. The edge of his robes snapped against his legs. 

Potter glanced over, eyes partially obscured by the Shadowing Charm he’d cast on his glasses, and Draco saw his own face reflected in them, distorted into a parody of itself. 

“There’s a storm coming!” he shouted. 

Poter’s brow furrowed. He peered ahead. “There’s nothing there, Malfoy!”

“Not there!” Draco cried. They’d been looking straight ahead, so focused on their path that neither of them had taken a moment to look around them. “There!” Draco leant out, finger pointing over Potter’s shoulder. Potter flinched away from him and twisted. 

Clouds were gathering, dark and heavy. _In the west_ , Draco thought. They sat right above the water, casting black and blue shadows below, reaching high into the sky, piling and spilling over top of each other, shaded grey and gold and rose, and shifting as Draco watched. Slowly and inexorably, the clouds were moving closer. Draco watched as one flashed, lit from within by violet lightning. 

Draco looked back at Potter. He was cursing, his words swept away by the wind, the shape of his lips perfectly clear. His head whipped around and he stared at Draco, eyes wide for a brief instant before they narrowed into a glare. 

“When did you see this?” he shouted.

“Just now!” Draco shouted back. “We have to go back to land!”

“Land? Don’t be stupid, that’s hours away!”

“It’s closer than anywhere else! We can’t just keep flying, there’s nothing here! We can head out again once the storm has passed!”

Potter grimaced. “We have to have this assignment finished by the end of the week!”

“Fuck them!” Draco cried. He wasn’t going to die for the Ministry of Magic. Just because this was the only thing he’d been able to get right, the only thing he’d achieved since the war, did not mean he owed them his life. He was going to finish his training, marry, and live a _normal life_. That did not include dying in a tragic accident, accompanied by _Harry Potter_ , of all people. 

They were still flying, heading towards their destination at a precipitous pace, and Draco saw that Potter didn’t plan on stopping. So he gritted his teeth and made his decision. He pulled back, forcing the broom vertical and into a spinning halt. He clung with his hands, nearly standing on the footrests, and let the broom hover. 

As he caught his breath, he felt the currents of the air. 

It was cold, way up above the water. An icy breeze drifted by, lifting the strands of Draco’s hair around his eyes. He watched Potter fly farther and farther away, a determined idiot. 

A gust caught Draco, pulling at his robes and broom. It came from the direction of the storm and was surprisingly warm. He shouldn’t let Potter go, shouldn’t let him kill himself. He wondered what it was that made Potter so dedicated, made him willing to risk a storm that looked like that. 

He glanced to the side and saw that the storm was beginning to loom. It had moved so fast that it was gaining ground on them. Draco wasn’t sure they could outrun it. They. Well, he had to try. He couldn’t want to face the consequences if he didn’t. He pulled his wand from his robes and held it in a white-knuckled grip. “ _Sonorus_ ,” he cast, and slipped it away. 

“POTTER!” His voice boomed out, echoing across the empty space. He saw the clouds recoil and then surge forward, closer, as if in response. “COME BACK! NOW!”

Potter was nothing more than a spot of darkness, far ahead. Draco waited a moment, trying to ignore the clouds coming upon him. The wind was picking up, and he had to struggle to hold his broom in place. He counted down in his head. _Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four…_

Potter was coming back. He was growing larger, and as he resolved into a human being once more instead of a dark splotch in the sky, Draco saw that he was wet. The first splatters of rain flung themselves against his face, and he flinched. 

How had the storm reached them so quickly?

Potter shot towards Draco, rocking his broom with the speed of his passage. The Shadowing Charm on Potter’s glasses writhed as he flew, alternately dark and transparent, forcing Draco to look away from Potter’s unnerving gaze. 

“FUCK,” Draco cursed, and his muttered word came out as loud as a shout. He didn’t have time to cancel the Sonorus, though. 

The storm was coming. 

It still looked far away, at least a few minutes fast flying from them, but the shadow underneath it was stretching out to swallow the sea under Draco, and when he craned his neck to look overhead, the sun had vanished. 

His thoughts vanished into a haze of white panic, sharp-edged, and his fingers coiled tightly around the handle of his broom. 

Draco was yanked backwards suddenly. Years of muscle memory ensured that he pulled his broom with him and tucked it tight against himself. 

It had been caused by Potter’s spell, a Summoning Charm, Draco was sure. He flushed and said, “ _FINITE_ ,” and the sickening twist in his stomach deepened as he realized that he could barely hear his own words, even with the Sonorus. The winds were howling, drowning him out. 

The Summoning Charm lessened a bit, allowing Draco to fly under his own speed. He snarled and leant forward, and the strength of his fear carried his broom faster. He caught up with Potter and they flew together, skirting the edge of the storm, plastered flat to their brooms, and heading back towards land. 

The dark line that was Scotland thickened and began to gain features that looked very much like hills and crevasses. Draco’s heart thudded with sudden hope. 

A powerful wind caught him and sent him spinning. He shrieked, then gritted his teeth and pulled the broom straight. It strained, and Draco could feel the spells worked into the wood begin to tear. 

Draco’s wild gaze caught upon Potter, flying haphazardly, cutting through the edge of the storm by sheer determination and stupidity. It must have shifted around him. Draco shot after him on instinct, only realizing that he was flying towards the storm when he was halfway there. Lightning crackled through the clouds, thrumming through Draco with a sound deeper than he could hear.

“POTTER!” he screamed. 

Potter’s head turned as the storm roiled around him, but Draco never saw his eyes, because something caught Potter’s broom and his robes, tearing at them and sending Potter tumbling. He saw Potter twist, flinging his arm out and a flash of bright light shooting from it, nearly swallowed by the storm, and wrapped around him. A spell. 

Draco clutched his own broom as tight as if it was his wand. He had to stick with Potter; they had to get back to land together.

He dove down after Potter, but an updraft caught him, flinging him into the cloud. 

Draco tried again to descend, pointing the broom towards the sea as he watched Potter spin away and vanish far below, arms tucked tight and spellwork shimmering around him. But the gust was too powerful, and it pulled Draco away. He pried his hand from the broom and reached for his wand, then grabbed for the broom as it rocked and strained. He couldn’t let go, not now. 

Leaning down, he focused on the broom. _Down_ , he thought, forcing it to move downwards against the updraft. If he could just get through this part of the storm, reach calmer air, he could pull out his wand and get to Potter.

The wind carried his robes and hair upwards in a stinging rush. His vision went blurry and he blinked the tears out of his eyes, squinting. He had an instant, then, when his gaze was clear, and he saw that he had been carried up high above the storm (roiling below him), to where the sky was dark and the stars crystalline bright above, and the air was so thin that he was left gasping. 

The spells and charms woven into his broom gave a final twist and shattered. 

The world fell out from under him, and Draco plunged. 

The storm clouds were wet and black around him, and Draco was screaming. He couldn’t hear his voice, but his throat seared. His eyes strained, and when he felt a tingle across his skin, lifting the hairs on his arms and at the base of his neck, he closed his eyes on instinct. Lightning flashed around him, and the world exploded into light. 

A second later, he opened his eyes. He was below the cloud, and the sea was visible below him, drifting closer with an eerie unreality. His teeth were clenched and the taste of copper filled his mouth and nostrils. He grasped at his robes, fumbled with the handle of his wand before his fingers remembered how to clench around it and he yanked it out. 

“ _WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA_!”

His descent slowed and stalled. He felt numb, bruised and broken. He was sobbing. His fingers twisted in his robes fitfully and he cast around, looking for Potter. Nowhere. Nothing, there was nothing. He needed…he didn’t know what. He couldn’t do this. He wanted to go home. 

He looked down. The white caps of the waves were visible below him. He took a deep, steadying breath as the Levitation Charm lowered him slowly, closer and closer to the water. He unbuttoned his outer robe and pulled it off, then let it fall. 

Immediately, the wind caught it and tore it away. His bag was gone as well, likely ripped from his back by the wind, and all his supplies scattered across the waves. Draco pushed his hair from his eyes. He couldn’t worry about that now. It felt as if he was standing in his own personal bubble here, in the sky. Like he was safe. 

“ _FINITE INCANTATUM_.” His voice was hoarse as he cancelled the spells – overuse of Sonorus, he wouldn’t be able to speak properly for a while – and he held his arms close to his chest, pinched his nose shut, and closed his eyes as he fell into the icy sea. 

-|-

He’d been lucky, he supposed. The wind-whipped waves directly underneath the storm were to his right, furious and churning. Draco saw them every time a swell lifted him up, carrying him just above the worst of the waters. If not for that wave, he would have drowned moments after struggling to the surface. 

He cast a Bubble Head Charm and held his wand between his teeth to keep it safe. He wasn’t a great swimmer, barely competent and with little experience, and he needed of his hands. He kicked off his shoes and his socks pulled themselves off in the water as he paddled. His muscles screamed with the effort, and he panted around his wand, nostrils flaring. 

He had to find Potter. Potter would save him, somehow. He’d Apparate them back to the Ministry in a single jump, make sure that Draco was dried and warmed, and then they could start this foolishness all over again. If only he could find Potter.

A muscle in Draco’s leg shivered and cramped, and he slipped underwater at the sharp pain. The darkness swam around him, distorted by the Bubble Head. He looked around, but couldn’t see anything. The ocean was black, the water full of formless shadows and nothingness. He could get lost down here. Fear spasmed through him, and he kicked back to the surface. 

He looked around, half letting the water carry him and half swimming, trying to see if land was anywhere near. Or something. Anything that he could grasp hold of, so that he didn’t need to swim. But there was nothing around him except the waves, rising dark and white-capped on all sides.

Draco kicked, forcing himself above the water, and grabbed at his wand. His grip was tenuous, loosened by the numbness spreading through his extremities, but he managed to whisper “ _Accio Harry Potter._ ”

The spell immediately began to tug and jerk him through the water, and Draco shoved his wand back between his teeth. 

Black sea water surged around him. A few splashes leaked through his Bubble Head, so that when he licked his lips he tasted brine. He frowned at his charm. Then he spotted something in the water. 

It was darker than the water around it, black and floating. He pushed towards it, swimming desperately. The spell pulled him forward, yanking him with a hook right underneath his ribs, and sent him tumbling through the waves. 

It was Potter, floating in the water, eyes closed and glasses lost. His spells shimmered around him, looking strained and pathetic, but they had obviously done their job by keeping him alive. 

Draco’s Summoning Charm forced him up against Potter’s spells, pressing him close to the electric sensation of the magic, and Draco pushed himself through the shields so that he could grab Potter. He clutched him close. 

Potter was unconscious and soaking wet, arms and legs flailing. Draco wrapped himself around the other man before the water could pull them apart again. “ _Incarcerous_ ,” he hissed, and ropes shot from the tip of his wand, wrapping around both of them and tying them together. 

Draco’s jaw ached. His entire body ached and screamed with pain. This was too much. His vision swam and he fisted his hands into Potter’s robes – or, at least, he tried to, but couldn’t feel them, so he couldn’t be sure. His breath came out with a shuddering hiss and he cast a Bubble Head Charm for Potter. Why wasn’t Potter awake? Why did _Draco_ have to do this? 

Of course, Potter might already be dead. Draco hadn’t really had a moment to check whether he was still breathing, and now it was too late – he’d already bound them together. He let his head fall onto Potter’s chest and concentrated on breathing. 

As he felt them slip under the water, he closed his eyes, not wanting to see the inky depths surrounding them. He ached, his heart pounded, and his eyes dragged themselves closed. He couldn’t swim anymore; he couldn’t do anything. 

With a last, deep breath that pulled the edges of the Bubble Head close to him, he said, “ _Accio land_.” He couldn’t tell if the spell worked, because his vision flashed beneath closed lids, bright lights spinning, and then everything disappeared and was dark. 

-|-

He woke on a beach, with foaming surf rushing around his ears and his arms wrapped around Harry Potter. 

Draco pulled back, or tried to, but he was tied to Potter. He glared down at Potter’s wet hair, plastered to his face and atypically tame, and felt a sharp jolt of pain run through his jaw. He thought back and remembered the storm. 

He couldn’t reach his face, so it took him a good moment to force his teeth apart so that his wand could slip out and lay next to him on the sand. He flexed his jaw and closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing, thinking of nothing but calmness, of a morning when bright sunlight flooded his bedroom at the Manor, when everything had been right, his parents had laughed downstairs and he’d been dry and warm. 

He couldn’t think of the storm yet. Their brooms were lost, Draco’s supplies were gone, Potter’s wand was probably missing, they were in the middle of nowhere, and Draco felt beyond horrible. He thought he was going to be sick. His teeth clicked shut, and he stopped those thoughts dead. 

Centimeter by careful centimeter, Draco worked himself up in the ropes, which had apparently shrunken and tightened around him and Potter, until he could touch his wand with the barest brush of skin to wood. 

“ _Finite Incantatum_ ,” he said. His voice was barely there; it was hoarse, no more than a whisper, and hearing it sent a pang of worry through Draco. 

The spell worked, though, and the ropes loosened. Draco pushed free and scrambled to his feet, snatching his wand up. His shirt and trousers were soaked, and clung to his skin, sending shivers through him and weighing him down. 

Potter looked worse, pale as death and blue around the lips, with his black robe swathing him and hiding everything but his face. Slowly, Draco walked over to him and kneeled down. He reached out, but couldn’t feel much in his fingers, so he leant forward, holding his cheek just above Potter’s lips despite the fiery pain that shot up his back and through his legs. He braced himself with hands on either side of Potter’s head and listened. 

Potter was alive. His breaths were warm and they misted across Draco’s cheek. Draco sighed with relief, though that hurt as much as everything else, and shoved Potter over. He felt Potter’s back, reaching into the cold folds of his robes to find his pack with his supplies. He found nothing. Gone, like everything else. Damn the Ministry’s cheap supplies and their cheap bags that broke so easily. 

Draco hoped Potter woke up soon. 

He slumped down, over Potter, and caught a sound that made him pause. Draco listened closer and heard a rattling in Potter’s chest, a weak sucking sound that strained with every breath. 

He frowned down at Potter and his blue-tinged lips. He reached out and pushed Potter’s sleeve up and touched the back of his hand. The skin was cool and clammy. Draco sat back on his heels. He twisted his hands together, close to his chest, and thought.

This was bad. Draco didn’t know much about medical magic - anything, really – but he knew that Potter’s breathing shouldn’t sound like that, and his skin shouldn’t feel like that. 

“Potter!” It hurt his throat to yell, but he had to. Potter needed to wake up, and quickly. Draco didn’t even want to think about what would happen to him if Potter died. 

He grasped Potter’s shoulders and shook them. Potter’s head lolled limply. “Potter, wake up!” Nothing, not even a twitch of his lips or flutter of his eyelashes. “You fucking prat, wake up!” His voice was turning desperate and high, quickly climbing as he panicked. He snatched his hands back and buried them in his hair, tugging until pain sparked through his scalp. 

What could he do? Potter wasn’t waking up. Draco had training, but mostly on how to deal with injuries, flesh wounds, or difficult curses. There was no blood on Potter, Draco could tell at a glance that this wasn’t a flesh wound. It had to be something wrong with his lungs. Maybe he’d inhaled some of that sea water; he hadn’t had a Bubble Head on when Draco had found him. This which was such a common danger, so normal, even _Muggles_ could die this way, and they probably did all the time.

Potter was going to die like a Muggle. And then Draco would die too. He clamped his hands over his mouth to stop the hysteria from bursting out. 

He tried to remember, forcing his mind back to the few days of survival training they had all had, cramped in a cheap tent with other Trainees who hated to so much as look at him, let alone talk to him. Draco had been very quiet, then, and had used his sharp gaze to fend off their glances. 

Damn their useless training. He growled and pulled at Potter’s robe, pushing him onto his side and pulling the soaked black fabric off his shoulders. He yanked and tugged, but the fabric was wrapped around Potter’s body, and so Draco had to lean forward and lift his arms, roll him over and back, in order to pull it free. 

The robes came away from Potter with a wet thump, slapping against Draco’s chest. He half fell backwards, catching himself with an outflung hand and bruising his wrist. The fabric flopped down onto the sand and Draco reached for his wand. His hands were shaking, he saw. He was shivering, small quivers running through his body and making him unsteady. But he couldn’t feel it. It didn’t hurt: it just was. He bit his lips and turned his wand on the robes. 

“ _Incendio_ ,” he said. He felt his magic twist inside of him, swooning to the side. The robe smoked, but didn’t catch fire. The spell hadn’t been strong enough, because his magic was exhausted. He knew this feeling, this dizzy numbness that caused his spells to fail. It had only happened to him once before, but he knew how dangerous it was. If he exhausted himself too much – and his magic was on the edge of that already – he could collapse, and at this point, he wasn’t sure he would wake up. 

He needed a fire, though. _They_ needed one. So he paused to center himself, letting himself listen to the rhythmic pounding of the surf for the first time, and took in a deep breath. When he felt slightly calmer, though not much, and his shaking had subsided, though not by much, he lifted his wand again.

“ _Incendio_ , he said, and a lick of flame curled upwards from the balled robe. Draco kept his wand out, feeling the lurch and spin of his magic within him, making him sicker and sicker, and the flame grew. 

When it was the size of his hand, he gasped and fell to the side, the world spinning blotchily around him. He didn’t pass out, though. He clung to the edge of consciousness, digging his nails into his palms, biting down on the inside of his cheek. He watched the flame flicker, pale yellow spreading across the black, turning deeper red and spitting sparks of blue. He could feel the air heating already. He grinned. Only magic would allow fire to burn through a wet robe. 

He let his cheek rest on the sand, which was fine and wet and clung to his eyelashes when he blinked. Just a moment, he just needed a moment. 

 

 

 

 

 

Draco opened his eyes and knew that he’d fallen asleep. The light was different. He pushed himself upright next to the still-smouldering remains of Potter’s robe and looked out over the grey ocean. In the distance, he could still see the storm. It was heavy and dark, and looked very small from here. 

His magic felt stronger. He glanced over at Potter, who was curled near Draco, next to the dimming fire, and saw that he looked stronger as well. Draco could hear the rattle in his chest from where he lay, but his lips appeared pink once more, and his hair was frazzled, sticking out from his head in all directions, mostly dried. 

Draco levered himself to his feet and stumbled. He still felt dizzy, and the tips of his fingers still trembled. Not a good idea, then. He wouldn’t be able to get himself off the beach, let alone drag Potter along. He sank to his knees and looked around. He didn’t see any trees nearby. The beach slowly grew rockier and rougher until it ended at a small cliff, riddled with small caves. The only green Draco could see was the moss upon the rocks and the grass growing at the top of the steep, sloping cliff. He lifted his wand and pointed it towards the cliff, thinking. 

What would they need to keep the fire going? Wood, of course, but anything else? He couldn’t think of anything, so he concentrated, braced himself, and said, “ _Accio dry wood_.”

His magic was stronger than before, but it still reeled within him, and Draco suspected that the nearest dry pieces of wood were very far away indeed, and that the spell was going to cost more than he wanted to give. 

A moment later, a few branches, chunks of wood, and bark sailed over the beach. They landed by Draco’s hands and he released the spell. He picked up the wood and lowered it onto the fire. Each piece felt heavy, as if he were lifting a sack filled with metal. By the time he had placed the last piece on the fire, he was panting. 

He leant forward and braced himself on his hands, shoulders hunched. 

Potter coughed. 

Draco jerked and would have jumped to his feet if he’d had the energy. As it was, a shot of excitement leapt through him and he felt his toes for the first time in what felt like forever. He crawled over to Potter and shook him. 

“Potter!” he said. Potter coughed again, a wet, racking sound that shook his body. Draco drew back for a moment – that sounded horrible, worse than he’d imagined. Had he made a mistake? Was there something else he could have done?

He shook his head, told himself to stop being foolish. There was nothing more that he could have done. Not then, and not now. The best he could hope for was that one of them had enough energy to Apparate back to London and Side-Along the other, because he didn’t fancy their chances if they stayed. 

Potter kept coughing, and his hand came up to cover his mouth. He coughed into it, trying to smother the sound, and Draco decided he’d had enough. He reached under Potter’s shoulders and pulled him up, then leant against his back to keep him upright. 

Potter’s coughing calmed slightly, lessened in intensity, and died away to silence, leaving only his strained, wheezing breaths. Draco leant forward and looked at Potter’s face. It was flushed, bright spots of pink high on the cheekbones, and his eyelashes were parted just slightly, revealing the glint of eyes underneath. 

“What—“ Potter began, and then coughed again. And again, and again. 

Heart pounding, Draco shifted him a little closer to the fire. Potter _could not_ die. He couldn’t. “Don’t talk,” Draco said. He didn’t even add, _No one wants to hear you, anyway_ , he was so worried. 

He couldn’t help the anxiety, it seemed. On one hand, Draco wanted to be far away from Potter – he could have happily completed his training without seeing Potter once or hearing his name. On the other hand, Potter was the only other person there, and the thought of him dying and his body lying there, cold, or being swept away and leaving Draco completely alone sent a chill through him. And on a third hand, was something that Draco didn’t like to think about most days, were the memories of the things that he owed Potter after Potter had saved his life years ago – several times. The least he could do was keep them both alive, and then run as far from Potter as possible. 

Potter’s hand gripped Draco’s shirt tightly, and he leant closer. Potter’s breathing was heavy, but no worse than before, and he didn’t seem to be trying to speak. So Draco moved forward until Potter’s shoulder rested on his chest and his head lolled against Draco’s shoulder. 

Draco was cold, his shirt alternately stiff and wet from the seawater, but Potter warmed his side, and as the moments passed Draco found that some of the tension left him. Potter’s grip on his clothing loosened, and his eyelids fluttered. His breathing slowed, and Draco knew he was watching Potter fall asleep. 

The fire cracked, and sparks flew into the air. Draco looked up, startled. 

The storm clouds were gone and the sky was clear; not even the horizon was marred. He looked around, at the rocks of the curling shoreline and the darkness sweeping across the sky as the gloaming deepened. 

It had been…mid-morning since the storm had hit them. Was it still the same day, or the day after? How long had they been stranded?

Draco hated himself for the stretches of time that he’d lost to unconsciousness and exhaustion. Even now, his eyelids drooped. 

He backed away from Potter, who sagged limply down across his thighs, and then, as Draco moved further away, onto the sand. Potter’s head hit the sand relatively hard, and Draco flinched, but Potter didn’t wake, just went on breathing in his hollow, harsh sighs. 

The wood on the fire burned brightly, the same color that the rim of the sky was turning. Draco wasn’t so cold anymore. 

Though the sand was damp, he laid himself down, placing his head on his arm. He uncurled his fingers from around his wand and flexed them, then placed his wand against the curve of his chest. It was comforting, just slightly warmer than the air around it. 

Draco relaxed, his thoughts whirling. If he woke up in the morning, what should he do? Would he be recovered enough to Apparate them? Potter obviously needed to see a Healer – Draco was going to steal every book on healing from his parents’ library as soon as he got home – and what was Draco going to do if he didn’t have enough magic to Apparate them to St. Mungo’s? Perhaps Nimblehatch was close enough – he could hop them there and then from there, get some help. Luna… he could Firecall her again…

His thoughts softened and lengthened, until they made no sense at all, and with the steady rhythm of Potter’s breath rasping next to him, he fell asleep. 

-|-

He woke as the sky was just turning gray, the blue leaching from it and turning into a light gold off somewhere over the cliffs. Draco pushed himself up to a sitting position and went to scrub at his eyes, then snatched his hand back as he remembered that they were covered with sand. 

He rolled back onto his heels and stood, rubbing his hands on his trousers. He bent, scooped his wand up, and said, “ _Scourg -_.” He stopped as he remembered that he needed to conserve his magic. He couldn’t waste it on frivolous spells like cleaning or warming, no matter how much his skin felt like it was crawling and the crisp air bit at the shells of his ears. 

In a few minutes, or a few hours, when Draco felt strong enough, he would have to Apparate Potter and himself off the beach, and that would likely require all the magic he had left. 

His magic felt relatively steady, at the moment. There was still a gaping emptiness inside him that had nothing to do with hunger, which told him that his magic was weak. He should get warm and eat something, fix the problem quickly – but that wasn’t likely in this desolate spot. 

Draco stepped away from Potter and the grey remains of the fire. It needed more wood, at least for the moment, and rather than waste a spell, Draco thought he might stretch his legs. He strode away across the beach, over dry and shifting sand towards the cliffs where he might find some dried, dead wood. 

There were a lot of rocks. Arms wrapped tightly around himself, wand digging into his side, Draco nearly tripped over at least three of them. They stuck up from the sand like icebergs or something, and they were invisible in the near-darkness before the dawn. 

Cursing under his breath, Draco forged on. There didn’t seem to be a single piece of wood on the damned beach. Not that he would have seen it, if there had been, but he didn’t trip over any branches or hear dead leaves crackle under his feet. There was only the rhythmic crash of the waves, and so, cold and breathing hard, he turned back towards Potter. He and the dead fire were just dark lumps on the beach. 

Draco walked down the beach towards the water, and firmer sand, before making his way back. 

Potter was sitting when Draco reached the fire, and it was so unexpected that Draco stared at Potter for a long moment before his heart twisted within his chest and he jumped forward. 

“Potter!” His voice was still raspy, but came out loud. 

Potter picked his head up and blinked blearily at Draco. He licked his lips, but his gaze didn’t focus. After a panicked moment, Draco supposed it could be the lack of glasses. 

He stepped forward and crouched in front of Potter. Potter’s gaze followed him movement, but still didn’t focus on him. “Potter,” Draco said again, more softly. 

“Hmmm,” Potter responded, and reached out. His hand missed Draco’s arm the first time, then brushed his sleeve. Draco reached up and seized it, pulling Potter’s hand (clammy, cold, not good) between his own and rubbing slightly. 

He didn’t know what to do. His magic was still so weak, so tenuous. Potter was swaying. It was horrifying to watch; Draco thought he might be sick. 

He reached for his wand. Potter _hmmed_ again, a sound deep in his chest that Draco felt through Potter’s fingertips. He shivered and cast a Warming Charm. 

It sucked the magic from him, and he fell forward onto his knees. He fell against Potter, who leant on him, and they rested their heads of each other’s shoulders. Draco closed his eyes. He wanted to pull away, but couldn’t. The Warming Charm had been almost too much, too dangerous. 

But now Potter was warm, vital against Draco. His warmth was easing Draco’s chill. His tremors slowly lessened and he let his wand slip from his fingers to the sand. Best let it go now rather than cast accidental magic later. 

Draco could tell by the way that Potter’s breathing was slowing and how his body was relaxing against Draco that he’d fallen unconscious again. Draco couldn’t call it sleep because it seemed so unnatural. 

He let himself relax a bit, and his body began to still. He felt his strength returning bit by bit, and let his eyes close, silently willing it to come. 

-|-

Draco felt almost better, and the Warming Charm was almost gone, when he realised Potter was awake. 

Potter’s hand curled around Draco’s sleeve, flexing and stretching, seemingly unconsciously. Draco shifted, lifting his head from Potter’s shoulder and moving back. Potter stiffened and pulled away. 

Draco blinked at him. Potter seemed much better. Well, relatively so.

Potter held himself up on his hands, head low and shoulders hunched. He looked defeated and exhausted. There was a color in his cheeks and lips, and his eyes were focused on the ground in front of him. At least, Draco thought, as relief swept through him, Potter was awake. 

Potter looked up, eyes a startling shade of green, and focused unerringly on Draco. He resisted the urge to swallow and back away. 

Potter frowned at Draco. “Going to leave without me, were you?” he said, his voice an ugly rasp. Draco flinched back, glad that Potter had lost his glasses and couldn’t see his face. 

“No,” Draco said shortly. “But I should have.” He looked away, towards the dead fire. “How do you feel?”

“Terrible,” Potter said. Draco glanced at him and saw that his frown had lessened, but he still eyed Draco suspiciously. “Where are my robes? My glasses? Where are our supplies?” he asked, and he shifted to reach into one of his trouser pockets and grasp something. 

His wand, Draco assumed. He picked up his own and held it close, possessive, pushed to his feet. The muscles in his legs burned as he moved, shrieking their soreness. He clenched his jaw and moved away until he didn’t have to look at Potter. 

“I don’t know about your glasses,” he said. “They’re probably…” He gestured towards the sea and then plunged into his next sentence, which he knew wouldn’t go over well. “The supplies, too. As for your robe, I burnt it. For warmth.”

“ _You burnt my Auror robe?_ ”

Potter’s voice was so incredulous, so wounded, that Draco swung around and snapped, “Oh, get over it, you can get another. It was just a Trainee robe, anyway. I’m the one who kept you alive, and if you can’t appreciate that, you should just shut up.” He clamped his jaw tight and forced himself to saw nothing else. He had to work with Potter to get out of here. 

Potter’s glare, directed up at him, was caustic. 

“Do you feel up to Apparation?” he asked. 

Potter’s laugh was a harsh bark, and he looked down at the ashes of the fire. “I don’t think I could conjure a flame,” he said. “So it’s all up to you, Malfoy. Are you up to it – saving our lives instead of leaving it all to me?” His tone was mocking.

Unexpectedly, and horribly, tears sprung into Draco’s eyes. Thank Merlin, _thank Merlin_ , Potter didn’t have his glasses anymore. Thank Merlin he couldn’t see. Draco’s hands clenched into fists and he took a step forward before he could stop himself, biting at his lip. 

He pulled back, then. He couldn’t hurt Potter. He wasn’t allowed to anymore. They were in the same program, under the same supervisors. He’d probably be killed on the spot if he harmed Potter deliberately in any way. He was so angry that it took an effort to unclench his jaw.

“If you’re going to be like that,” he said slowly, each word hissing out of him with icy coldness, “you can save yourself.”

Draco whipped around, turning on his heel, sand giving slightly under his stride, and walked away. 

He found a rock big enough to climb on top of and proceeded to do so. He sat there, with his back to Potter, as the dawn turned the sky blood-red and orange, and waited for his breathing to slow and his helpless, angry sobs to die away. 

-|-

Draco climbed off the rock, feeling much stronger and calmer. He didn’t feel quite ready to meet Potter, but he knew he couldn’t put it off any longer – the sunlight cast long shadows across the beach. Besides, he had a plan. 

He was going to Apparate them both out, whether Potter fought him or not. 

Potter was sitting when Draco reached him, knees pulled against his chest and arms wrapped around them. He lifted his head as Draco approached. 

“Look,” he began, and Draco opened his mouth to cut him off, and Potter plunged into his next sentence, forcing the words out almost faster than Draco could understand. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve said that.”

Draco’s teeth clicked against each other and he stared. “What?”

“I am sorry, Malfoy. I feel like shite right now, and I can’t see this getting better any time soon, but I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Can you forgive me?”

Draco was sure that Potter was mocking him, trying to twist him around his finger so that he could use him to get out. That wouldn’t be like Potter, though. Draco remembered his trial, for the first time in a while – how Potter had testified for him, how earnest he had sounded as he’d asserted Draco’s innocence and foolishness and why he should be spared, and how Draco had turned away from him without a single word of thanks, unable to give Potter that after he’d lost everything else. He’d been too scared and cowardly to speak, then. He owed Potter forgiveness, he supposed. 

Draco looked away from Potter and down at the sand. The waves had etched lace into the beach.

“I’ll Apparate us out of here,” he said. “I’ll try and get us to Nimblehatch – from there, we should be able to Floo back to London. Neither of us is in any shape to complete the assignment at the moment.”

“Yeah,” Potter said quietly. 

Sand crunched, and Draco glanced behind him. Potter was lurching to his feet. He braced his hands on his knees and straightened slowly. 

“Shouldn’t we…”

“We can’t afford to waste any more time,” Draco said. “You aren’t improving, and there isn’t any food to be found around here. I’ll get us back to Nimblehatch, and we’ll figure it out from there.” He forced any doubt from his tone.

Potter blinked up at him, considering. Then he straightened, hissing slightly, and reached out a hand. “All right,” he said. 

Draco took a deep breath. This was it. He held his wand close and braced himself, reaching for the scant magic inside him. He grasped Potter’s hand, squeezing it in a desperate grip, thought of Nimblehatch, and Apparated them both away.

-|-

Draco landed on his feet, triumphant. He’d done it! He felt his magic moving around him, and Potter’s hand on his arm. He looked up. 

The world spun, sickeningly, around him. He felt sick and his vision blurred and turned grey. He couldn’t feel Potter’s hand anymore. 

“Malfoy!” Potter was shouting, but his words were distorted and mangled in Draco’s ears. 

Draco opened his mouth and the world turned, swirled sideways. He blinked. Where was he? Was he on his side? Potter’s face was in front of him and the sun far above, and there was pressure on his side. 

He took in a deep breath, but his lungs didn’t seem to want to work. He gaped at Potter. 

Something had gone wrong, terribly wrong. Likely, his magic had been too weak for the Apparation. Why had it felt so good, then? He’d been so proud. 

Humiliatingly, he felt the prick of tears in the corner of his eyes as all other sensations faded. Potter was saying something that Draco couldn’t hear. 

He’d killed himself, then. He was dying. He’d used his magic too fast and killed himself, and when he fell unconscious, he knew that he wouldn’t wake. 

Draco clung to the light around him, reached out for it though he couldn’t lift his arms. He looked into Potter’s green, green eyes and dimly felt his fingers curl around something warm – part of Potter. 

First, his vision went grey, then black. He felt quick gasps pulse through his chest. His lips tingled and his magic danced at the edge of his mind, taunting him. Were his eyes open, or was he blind?

Potter was warm under his hand, and Draco could have sworn, for a moment, that he felt his breath across his cheek. And then even that faded, and Draco was suspended in nothingness. 

 

 

-|-

 

 

Draco began to feel acutely. 

There were lumps and bumps under his back, digging into his spine and muscles, and a coolness that spread across his shoulder blades – damp ground soaking through his clothes. He must be lying down. Something pricked the shells of Draco’s ears – sharper than the ends of his hair and cooler besides. Where was he?

He struggled to remember what had happened, and the darkness that surrounded him helped. He focused, dove backwards through his memories, and sighed. 

They had been stranded, sleeping on the beach because there had been nowhere else to go. He had Apparated them, and then fallen, and thought he was dying. But who had been with him, the other half of the ‘us’ that resonated in Draco’s mind? 

Potter. Ah. 

Draco remembered his bright green eyes, shining and vivid as he’d leant over Draco. He hadn’t died in Potter’s arms after all. 

He blinked and, surprised, gasped softly. 

His vision was filled with a dappling of black and white and gold. The mosaic of light hovered above him, shivering softly in form, and a susurrus played against his ears. 

Potter leant down, over him, blocking out the light. “Malfoy,” he said, voice lilting with surprise, “you’re awake.”

“Yeah,” Draco groaned. His voice was harsh, and his head throbbed. What had he been looking at? “Where are we?”

“Well.” Potter sat back on his heels and Draco pushed himself up on his elbows. 

Thick green grass bent under him, and as he looked around he saw that he was lying on the ground near the edge of a sparse tree line. Bright sunlight filtered through the leaves and dappled Draco, Potter, and the grass with light and shadow. 

Potter looked much better than he had on the beach. He was moving much more easily. There was color in his cheeks and his clothes had dried; he’d rolled the sleeves of his white shirt, stained grey in places, above his elbows. He was frowning at Draco, so Draco glared back. 

Potter took a deep breath. “I don’t know where we are. You said you were aiming for Nimblehatch, but this isn’t familiar at all to me, and I walked as far as I dared, but I couldn’t find the town. We could be anywhere from Norway to Spain.”

That was certainly an overstatement. Draco’s mouth twisted with contempt. “I doubt that,” he said. “The air feels precisely the same as it did by the beach – perhaps a little warmer – so it is likely that we are very near where I tried to Apparate us from. Have you listened for the sea?” To be honest, Draco didn’t want to think about where he’d Apparated them. He hadn’t had enough magic to Apparate them far, but still... His imagination brought up chilling possibilities. 

Potter sat back, surprise widening his eyes. He opened his mouth and then closed it. Then, frowning at Draco, he closed his eyes and titled his head to the side, plainly listening. 

Draco rolled his own and rolled onto his side. “Oh,” he gasped. 

The world spun around him, trees swaying and turning upside down, then back. His stomach churned, and he closed his eyes. Draco’s magic whirled around him, evanescent as mist and yet there, and Draco was so grateful to feel it. 

He dug his fingers into the earth. 

“Here.” Potter was at his side, looming over him, and Draco tried to shoot a glare at him, remind Potter than he wasn’t needed. 

Draco would be fine, if he just had so time to steady himself. 

Potter shoved something under his head. And pulled Draco back down onto the ground. Draco tried to resist, but he was so tired and felt so sick, and Potter’s hand was very warm. He reached up as Potter stood and felt the fabric bunched under his head. It felt like…a pillow. Conjured. Potter had magic enough for that, then…

He rolled his head to the side and found Potter. “Can you Apparate us?” he called. Even that simple action forced him to close his eyes. When he opened them again, Potter was leaning against a nearby tree, arms crossed across his chest. He looked much better without his glasses. 

“No, likely not,” he said. “Besides, not knowing where we are, I wouldn’t risk it.” Potter flashed a small smile at Draco and then turned away. 

Draco gritted his teeth. How dare he insinuate that it was all Draco’s fault? He’d done the best he could, the very best, to get them both out of this alive. And though he’d botched it at the end, only a bit, they were still alive, weren’t they?

Draco wanted to jump up, run after Potter and shove him against a tree – force him to see that Draco had saved his sorry arse – but he was so weak that just the thought made him sweat. Potter would laugh himself sick sooner than Draco could beat him. 

He should figure out how to get back to London instead. Draco forced his mind back to practical matters. What had Potter said? They weren’t near anything Potter recognized. Nimblehatch wasn’t in walking distance. But…

“Potter! Potter!”

Potter strode out of the trees and crouched. “Yeah? What now.”

“Try Point Me,” Draco fairly spat at him. “Search for Nimblehatch. If it’s within ten kilometers, the spell will find it, and if not, at least we’ll know something.”

“How do you know that?”

Draco nearly laughed at him then and there, consequences be damned. “Because I, Potter, unlike you, actually read the documented research on the spells that I use instead of simple hoping for the best. I _study_.”

He couldn’t understand how Potter could have gotten so far and accomplished so much if he was so stupid that he didn’t know that simply reading over the information on a spell was likely to make him better equipped to use it. 

Potters gaze darkened and he lifted his wand, balancing it on his palm. He turned his heavy stare upon it and said in a rough voice, “Fine. Point Me Nimblehatch.”

The wand twitched, then began to spin. Faster and faster. The wand spun and spun and slowly, Draco’s hope began to die. That was it, then, he’d Apparated them far off course. Complete failure. 

Shame had begun to wash thought him, hot and repulsive, when the wand shivered and shuddered, and stopped. It pointed over Draco’s shoulder, over, Draco saw when he glanced, a hill. He looked back to the wand. 

The spell hadn’t ended or failed. It had found what it sought for. Nimblehatch must be fairly close to the end of the ten kilometer range for the spell to have taken so long, but this meant that it was close, reachable. 

Draco’s breath shuddered out of him and he lay back onto the pillow that Potter had Conjured, and closed his eyes for a moment. Hope. 

He pushed the thought away. 

“Well, then, Potter, what are you going to do now?” Draco cracked open his eyes and squinted at Potter, he hoped menacingly.

“Me?” Potter had the gall to look affronted. 

“Potter. Have you, by any chance, looked at me lately?” Draco raised a hand and flapped it towards himself before letting it fall ungracefully to the earth. “I’m not going to be saving anyone at the moment.” _You’ve never saved anyone,_ his thoughts accuse, and Draco clenched his jaw closed. No need to let that thought out. 

Potter was watching him, his long lashes hiding his gaze. He seemed tense. Was he angry with Draco? That wasn’t unusual, but out here it could be a problem. Draco had been a fool. He shouldn’t have antagonized Potter. He should apologize. 

He opened his mouth, but the words just wouldn’t come out, so he closed it again. 

“You saved me,” Potter said, mild. 

Draco looked back up at him and gaped. Potter obviously read Draco’s confusion in his expression, because he went on. 

“Out there, during the storm. You saved my life, Malfoy. You…kept me warm.” 

Potter’s gaze was still a little off when he looked at Draco, unused to being without glasses, but it was enthralling all the same. Draco found himself breathless, staring into the green of Potter’s eyes (both deep and bright at once, and flecked with gold). 

Potter reached out and took Draco’s hand. He clutched it tightly, and slowly, Draco responded, curling his fingers around Potter’s dry, calloused hand. 

“Thank you,” he said. “I just wanted to say thank you, because even though we’re out in the middle of nowhere without my glasses or our brooms and your magic is weak and making you ill, without what you did we wouldn’t be here at all. So,” Potter took a deep breath, as if steadying himself, “thank you. I owe you my life.”

Draco held Potter’s hand for a moment longer, and Potter held his back, but that seemed to be the end of Potter’s speech. They pulled away from each other. 

Potter had already turned away when Draco said, “You’re welcome. I…” He couldn’t begin to justify his saving of Potter out loud, so he abandoned that line of thought. He thought instead about what Potter had said at the end, how he owed Draco his life. “We’re even,” he settled for. 

Potter looked back and nodded. “I’m going to get us some food and water,” he said. “You need to get your strength back.” He walked away into the trees, and Draco watched him go, dark trousers absorbing the light and white shirt reflecting it, making him that stand out among the tones of nature like a carven sculpture. 

“Thank you,” he said, but Potter was too far away to hear, and Draco doubted his words would have relieved the slump of Potter’s shoulders, anyway. 

-|-

Potter brought back food. He had a bottle slung over his shoulder that sloshed against his hip as he moved, and a bag that smelled wonderful. He’d obviously conjured it all, and Draco could see the strain in the lines of his face. 

Conjuring food was a tricky proposition, but it had been, luckily, one of the skills that had been given ample emphasis in training. Food could not be conjured. Despite the slang, it was impossible to create food that would nourish and sustain from nothing. Eating that kind of food, made from nothing but solidified air, basically, was about as useful as drinking salt water, and would just as surely kill you, only quicker. 

Similarly, you could not eat food that had been transfigured from something inedible. Food transfigured from rocks and metal would taste stale and harsh, and settle into the stomach like gravel and iron filings. It would poison and kill within a day. Food transfigured from leaves and grass would dissolve away like fairy gold, false and evanescent.

Edible food could only be transfigured, and only then from something else edible. Water had to be drawn up out of the earth and filtered by magic. The process was exacting and exhausting, and so Draco felt a twinge of guilt when he saw Potter’s drawn face. 

Potter wasn’t well, either. As he drew close and settled to his knees next to Draco, he could hear Potter’s breathing. It was still hollow and strained. 

Draco pushed himself up onto his elbows and paused, taking in a deep breath. He felt stronger. Not recovered, but stronger than before. He pulled his knees in and sat all the way up, leant forward to grasp the bag over Potter’s shoulder. It swung towards Draco and smacked him in the chest. He rocked back, but managed to catch himself, and let the bag slide down to the ground. 

Potter settled all the way down to the grass and set the other bag he held down. It smelled amazing – rich and spicy, and unlike anything Draco had smelled before. He wondered what Potter had found to transfigure, and what he’d transfigured it into. 

Draco reached for the bag, but Potter grabbed it back and turned a dull glare onto Draco. 

“It’s curry,” he said, with an indignant tone. Draco raised his eyebrows. “I like curry. It’s good. I’m not conjuring anything else. So don’t ask. Are we clear?”

Draco had never had curry and didn’t know what is was, but it smelled wonderful, so he reached out towards the bag. Right now, he didn’t care; he’d eat anything. 

“Fine,” he said, and Potter relinquished the bag. “But are you sure you didn’t conjure these from poisonous mushrooms, because that would be unfortunate.”

Potter got this indignant look on his face, all pinched and frowning, so Draco smiled back mockingly. Obviously Potter didn’t understand the concept of a joke. 

Draco reached into the paper bag Potter had been carrying and lifted out a large bowl, hot on the bottom and steam rising from the top. It smelled divine, all spices and cream. Draco stared down into what appeared to be a reddish stew and inhaled. His stomach twisted in on itself and grumbled. 

Potter reached into the bag and lifted out another bowl that Draco had missed, but it appeared to be filled with a pile of thin white rice, so he paid it no mind. This curry, though…

It was fantastic. He stuck out a finger and scooped up some of the sauce, then shoved it into his mouth before it could burn. It was hot on his tongue, and spicy, too, and it filled his mouth with flavor. There was a hint of sweetness to it as well. Draco reached back down and plucked up one of the pieces of meat. It was lamb! It melted in his mouth, bursting with flavor. He smiled. 

Potter was watching him, he noticed. Draco didn’t really care, though. He kept eating the meat until his lips tingled and his tongue felt numb, and then he reached for the rice. Potter raised his eyebrows and handed it over. 

Draco put the bowl of curry onto the grass and let Potter take some. 

Potter moved more slowly than Draco. “I was going to say that you shouldn’t complain about the lack of utensils, because I don’t think I could conjure them if I tried, but I don’t think there’s any need.”

Draco nodded and chewed on another handful of rice. He swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d care, Potter, raised by Muggles as you were.”

Again, Potter drew inward, shrinking away from Draco and lifting his chin. “Malfoy, you have no right –“

“Honestly,” Draco cut through him, “Shut up.” Potter had absolutely no sense of humor. “I was hungry, Potter, nothing else. I would think that you’re hungry as well. Eat. We need to get our magic strong again in order to get out of here, so don’t starve yourself just because I annoy you.”

Draco placed the bowl of rice onto the grass and reached for the soft bag of water. He felt much better – having food in his stomach steadied him, anchored him in his own body. He felt his magic begin to settle close to his skin once more. As he ate more and rested, regained his strength, his magic would sink back into him and he wouldn’t be so limited anymore. 

He reached for his wand and dug in the grass. There. He grasped a pebble and picked it up. He blew the dirt off and flicked his wand at it. The pebble stretched and contorted, transfiguring into a delicate glass. Draco lifted it carefully. 

It was light, lighter than spider-silk, and just as beautiful. Draco didn’t feel much different than before. His magic was still strong within him, and growing stronger. 

He carefully set the glass down and poured water into it. It was cool and fresh, when he lifted it to his lips. Potter had filtered it well. 

Draco had never doubted that Potter would function well in this sort of situation. This was what he lived for. This was what Potter was made for. Draco looked over at him. 

Potter was eating more slowly than Draco had, as if he was afraid to eat like he wanted while Draco was watching. He picked up the meat with his fingers and chewed it slowly. Draco paused, watching him. 

Potter was paying him little attention. He was utterly focused on his food at the moment, eating it with care. Perhaps Potter wasn’t afraid to eat in front of Draco. Perhaps he was just so exhausted that eating was all he had strength for. 

Draco tipped his head back and drank the rest of the water with a gulp. He poured more and shifted, balancing himself on one hand and crawling over to Potter. He settled next to him, pressing their shoulders together. 

He reached out, holding the glass. “Here,” he said. “Drink.” 

Potter looked at the glass and took it, smearing the crystalline curves with red-brown curry sauce. He knocked it back like bad vodka. Draco blinked at him. 

He poured more water into the glass. Potter drank again. 

He looked over at Draco, who remembered when they had sat like this on the beach, pressed close together, but Potter had been so much weaker. His gaze was stronger now, brighter and more acute. It was disconcerting. 

Draco flushed. 

“You have something…” Potter’s voice trailed off and he gestured, the tips of his fingers brushing across Draco’s cheek. A shiver ran down Draco’s spine.

His eyes flew wide and he scrubbed at his cheek, looking away from Potter. He covered his entire cheek and rubbed at his nose. He hadn’t even thought about the mess he’d made of himself by eating as he had. 

“No, not quite…” 

Draco’s gaze flashed back to Potter, who was frowning at him. Potter reached out and rubbed the cuff of his shirt across Draco’s cheek, low, by his mouth. 

Draco’s breath caught. His eyes drifted to Potter’s mouth and his fingers curled in Draco’s sleeve. Potter blinked – Draco saw the thin flash of his lashes against his pale skin – and licked his lips. 

Draco swallowed and moved closer, tightness curling inside him and blurring his thoughts. Potter’s breath smelled, a bit, and Draco found he didn’t even mind. 

His lips touched Potter’s, and they were dry, and a shock ran through Draco. He pushed closer, not knowing what he was doing, really, and Potter’s mouth opened. Draco bit down and tugged at Potter’s lower lip, smiling at the noise Potter made. 

Potter’s arm wrapped around him, and he was so warm, so close, and Draco could feel the rasp in his chest. He kissed Potter fully, opening his mouth and licking into Potter’s. 

Potter _hmmm_ ed; and Draco felt the vibration run through him, and smiled. Draco shifted, feeling the sensation coil within. He wanted more, wanted Potter’s warmth close to him, closer and within him, coursing through his veins. He could already feel it, almost, throbbing within his and causing him to flush. He shifted, pushing up slightly to place his hips in a more comfortable position. 

His lips slid away from Potter’s and he rested his forehead on Potter’s. Their breaths mingled. 

“Draco…” Potter whispered.

The name brought Draco back, stilled his breath. What was he doing?

“What?” he nearly shouted. He pushed himself to his feet and walked a few steps away, then turned back and sat next to a tree. His breath was heavy, but he felt filled with energy and charged. 

He stared at Potter, who stared back. 

“Malfoy, what was that? I was just trying to –“

“I know.” Draco’s voice was high. He did know. He’d known that the kiss probably meant nothing to Potter, could mean nothing, that Draco had damned himself by eating so wildly and foolishly. It was just that he’d been so hungry and when he’d sat down next to Potter, pushing so close to him and handing him his transfigured glass, Draco hadn’t thought anything of it either. He’d been mad: he wasn’t well. He couldn’t want more of that kiss, of Potter close to him. He _couldn’t_. “I know,” he whispered to himself. 

Potter cleared his throat and looked back to the food, slowly going back to eating. He left Draco’s glass buried in the grass next to him, tilted slightly and half filled with water, smeared with Potter’s fingerprints. 

Draco leant back against the tree and watched the sunlight filter through the imperfections in the glass until the tension drained from him. 

-|-

“So, what have you been doing?”

Draco blinked and pulled himself from daydreams of his bed, the sunlight falling through the window across the sheets and laughter ringing out downstairs. 

“What?”

Potter tried to force a smile and failed miserably. It looked more like he’d eaten something bitter. “I was just wondering what you’d been doing.”

Draco frowned, confused. “What I’ve been doing? I was trying to think of ways for us to get out of here besides waiting for our magic to recover while we conjure food and probably fight.”

“No,” Potter said. Draco’s mouth twisted. “Wait, I just meant… Since the trials. I haven’t seen you since the trials. What have you been doing… with your life?” Potter looked away, flushing.

A cold rage began to seethe within Draco, but he forced it down. So, now Potter cared? He’d testified for Draco but not come to see him once. He’d never sent Draco a note, never sought him out in Diagon. It had been as if, for Potter, Draco Malfoy ceased to exist once his _duty_ was done. 

Draco would not answer that question. He kept his mouth shut and at Potter. 

After a long moment, Potter glanced up at him and then away. His flush deepened. 

“Well, I… I’ve been well, I suppose,” Potter began, and Draco’s eyebrows rose. 

“Potter. Don’t hurt yourself trying. Do you really think I care about your life? I know everything I need to anyway from the papers.” He pushed his anger back, tamped it down. He couldn’t afford to fight with Potter now. He’d ignore him, instead.

If only he’d shut up.

Potter grimaced, but otherwise ignored him. 

“You would know that I broke up with Ginny – that was in the _Prophet_ – but they never did explain why. We’d been arguing, you see. At first it was about little things, like the fact that I… I spend a lot of time with Ron and Hermione –“

“Potter. Stop. I _do not_ want to hear this.”

“- and it just got worse from there. I knew she’d had a lot of boyfriends at Hogwarts, but whenever I saw her with other guys… She was just _so good_ with them, if you know what I mean.”

“I do not.”

“She has this thing, this way of smiling at them and looking at them, and they couldn’t look away. She’d do it with the waiter at the restaurant we went out to –“

“Can’t have been very good, then.” None of the restaurants that Draco had been to – back when he still went out dining with his parents – would ever have allowed one of the wait staff to respond to a patron’s flirtations. Not that Draco hadn’t tried. 

“- or juwithst a friend and I know it’s just how she is – she’s beautiful and charismatic and she’s been doing that sort of thing for years; she can’t help it. But it was driving me mad.” Potter’s words rushed out, heedless of Draco, and then he stopped dead. Draco eyed him warily, unsure if by saying something he’d prompt another intimate confession, and then Potter continued. “So we broke up. That’s all. End of story.”

Draco’s brow furrowed, and Potter looked away. 

“Even during the war,” Potter said low enough that Draco had to strain to hear him. “I never imagined losing them. I thought about it, sure, but I never really thought it’d come true. They’ve always just been there. And now that it’s all over, they’re getting married and I’m not and we’re drifting apart. And I –“

Potter fisted his hands in his hair, looked up at Draco, and grimaced. “I shouldn’t have said all that.”

_To me?_ Draco thought. Of course, to him. Potter should never have told him that. He must have been feeling exceptionally strange to have done so.

“No –“

“I’m glad I did, though,” Potter said loudly, forcefully, cutting Draco off. 

Draco stared at Potter, unnerved. What was Potter doing? Was he trying to connect? It had to be because of the kiss – Draco knew he’d been a fool, but now Potter seemed to be trying to follow him around like a lost kneazle. 

Potter was staring at him, defiantly. His jaw was clenched, shadowed by the beginnings of a dark beard, and as Draco looked back he realized that all he wanted was to reach out and take Potter’s jaw, draw him close and kiss him again. He flushed and looked away. 

He couldn’t think of these things, couldn’t let Potter get into his mind like that. He wouldn’t think about it again – not Potter’s jaw, not the kiss, not the warmth that had spread through him as he’d drawn Potter close. 

He remembered what Potter had said, though, about how his friends were drifting away. Draco’s friends had been ripped away, but his feelings were very much the same. He was alone, just like Potter said he was. 

Ah. 

The realization swept through Draco. Potter had always been alone: Draco had just been too blind to see it. 

He closed his eyes and tried not to imagine the heat of Potter’s gaze on him. 

-|-

Draco woke shivering, teeth clenched and fingers tugging at the sleeves of his thin shirt. The night wasn’t cold, but damp and chill, and he felt sick to his very core. 

As he woke and realized what was happening, he clenched his jaw tighter and unlocked his arms. He reached out and shook them. He should cast a Warming Charm. He reached for his wand and lifted it, staring down the slim, carved wood. 

Did he dare cast the Charm? The glass had been one thing – frivolous, really – but a Warming Charm was a constant thing. It would drain his strength slowly and subtly until he slipped away completely, his magic sucking him dry. If he fell asleep, he wouldn’t be able to cancel the Charm when it began to wear him too thin. He was too close to the memory of his near-death, the dizzy lethargy that had crawled over him, to risk almost dying again. 

The wand trembled as he watched it, and Draco closed his eyes. 

“Honestly,” he heard, and twitched. 

Potter was beside him then – had he been awake, had he watched Draco shake himself awake – settling next to Draco against the thin tree, the heat of his shoulder pressing into Draco’s. 

No, that wasn’t it, the heat was something more. Potter’s heat was wrapping around Draco as if his presence extended several feet around him. Potter had known that by coming over he would share some of his fire with Draco. Ah.

Draco lowered his wand and, flushing, looked away. Of course, Potter had a Warming Charm on. He hadn’t been the coward that Draco was, afraid to cast a spell that would prevent him suffering. 

Slowly, Draco unwound and leant closer to Potter. He inched around the tree until he was pressed tightly against Potter. His shivers were slowing, but he drew his knees to his chest to keep the warmth in. It felt wonderful. 

His eyelids sagged and his body began to still. He glanced over towards Potter, gaze fixing on the buttons of Potter’s shirt. His breath hitched and he clenched his jaw. _Self control_ , Draco. _You can’t do this to yourself._

“We can’t stay here.” The sooner they returned to London, the better. Draco could recover in peace, without wondering what Potter was going to do next, what wonderful food he would conjure or which charms he would cast. He wouldn’t have to worry about Potter’s unfathomable gaze or the fact that he didn’t seem to hate Draco at all, anymore. 

“Hmmm.” Potter’s sound of agreement was soft and deep, thrumming through Draco. 

Draco relaxed into Potter. The charm had warmed him thoroughly, and he felt loose-limbed and comfortable despite the root that dug into his thigh. 

“Potter,” he said, and looked up. 

Potter’s head lolled against the bark of the tree, soundly asleep. How had he _done_ that? He’d been awake just a moment before. Draco blinked at him in surprise. 

Then he smiled. Potter really was a mystery. He rested his head on Potter’s shoulder and shifted, relaxing into Potter’s warmth. Potter was nicer this way, quiet. Potter’s head fell to rest on top of his, hard and heavy, but Draco didn’t pay it any mind. He was too comfortable, and he felt somewhat content for the first time in…well, forever. 

He let his hands relax, curling in the space between his legs and Potter’s, and drifted back to sleep once more. 

-|-

Draco stretched, reaching high above his head and spreading his fingers. The night had been rough, his sleep fitful, curled up next to Potter, and now he was stiff. He shifted his neck from side to side to get the kinks out and looked down at Potter. 

The sunlight pouring through the trees sent golden patterns across Potter’s face, that skittered as the leaves above moved. His neck was arched, and his head was pressed back into the tree bark. He was still fast asleep. 

Draco took advantage of the quiet to close his eyes and focus on himself. The night’s rest and Potter’s conjured (and fucking brilliant) food, had done it. He felt so much better that he thought he might be completely recovered. 

He fingered his wand, spinning it in the palm of his hand, and then pointed it away from himself and turned on his heel. 

When he landed with a crack, he was halfway across the grove and his jaw was clenched. He forced his teeth apart and flexed his neck again. He’d done it. His heart pounded. It had been a risk, but now he knew he was recovered enough for Apparation. He sighed and turned again, landed next to Potter. 

Potter blinked up at him and licked his lips. 

“Recovered…” His voice was a harsh whisper and he trailed off, cleared his throat. Tried again. “Recovered enough to Apparate, then?”

“Yeah,” Draco said. Would Potter trust him enough to Apparate him out of here, or would he insist on Apparating himself? For all of Potter’s fancy conjuring of food, Draco wasn’t sure he was up to the messy combination of intricacy and brute force that was Apparation. 

Potter pushed himself away from the tree and lurched to standing. “Don’t try for London; it’s too far and you’ll probably kill yourself.”

Draco opened his most and was halfway into, “I’m not an –“ when Potter cut him off. 

“Meet you there,” he said, passing a hand over his eyes and flashing a tired grin at Draco. He turned of his heel and was gone with a crack. 

Draco stood for a moment, heart pounding as he stared at the place where Potter had been. That fool. That complete prat. He thought he could Apparate accurately after swallowing seawater, nearly dying, and working magic in order to keep Draco alive for days now. 

He had probably splinched himself and was now scattered all over Scotland. Draco wheezed and bent nearly in half at the thought. 

Potter wasn’t dead: he couldn’t be dead. Draco wouldn’t allow him to be dead. With a white-knuckled grip on his wand, Draco spun and was gone.

-|-

He stumbled into Nimblehatch on the exhale of the same breath and shuddered in the wake of Apparation. His magic tilted slightly, weakened but not cripplingly so. 

There was Potter, leaning against a lamppost near the edge of the pavement. As Potter swayed, Draco moved towards him and reached out, catching his shoulder. Potter turned, and his eyes flicked up to Draco.

He was grey and terrible looking, his glasses-less gaze wandering over Draco’s face. The rasp was back in his lungs, worse than ever. The strain of the spell had obviously been too much. 

He swayed again, more precipitously, and Draco moved forward, sweeping in under Potter’s arm and bracing him. This close, Draco could feel the rattle of seawater in Potter’s lungs. Something cold moved through him and he pulled Potter forward, toward the inn that they’d stayed at before any of this had happened. 

Potter stumbled alongside, muttering, “Malfoy, I’m fine, honestly, don’t…” He never quite finished his thought, but got far enough along that Draco knew his help was unwanted. 

Well. Potter could go fuck himself, because Draco was not about to allow him to expire in the middle of the street, and especially not in the middle of a town called _Nimblehatch._

He burst through the front door of the inn, pulling Potter along. 

There was a bench nearby and Draco poured Potter into it. He strode to the fireplace, grasped a handful of Floo powder, and flung it in. The fire burst into green and Draco fell to his knees. “St. Mungo’s,” he said, and leaned in.

A nurse paused and leaned towards the fire from her desk. Draco raised his chin.

“Harry Potter,” he said, pointing an imperious finger (that didn’t shake at all) towards Potter, “is dying.”

Draco didn’t have time to think of how dramatic that had been, except that the Mediwizards had arrived in under five minutes to collect Potter. 

And Draco, _finally_ , was able to let himself go and fall, and he didn’t have to worry about where he’d find himself when he awoke. 

 

 

-|-

 

 

Potter was in St. Mungo’s for a single night. Or so Draco read in the papers. He didn’t see Potter in the flesh until three weeks later, at the Trainee graduation. 

Draco sat in the middle of the second row. The bodies of the other Trainees pressed close on either side of him, but they didn’t look at Draco except to glare, or speak to him except to tell him, “Move.” 

Today, Draco didn’t care. 

He looked down at the bright red Auror robes - _his_ red Auror robes – folded neatly in his lap. They felt stiff to Draco, hard against his palms, and he relished the texture. This was what he’d been working three years to achieve; this was the fate he’d chosen for himself. 

At the podium, Shacklebolt droned on. Draco pulled his robes closer and looked up. 

Most of the Trainees had eyes only for Shacklebolt, and nodded along with his words or frowned slightly up at him. One or two looked down at the new robes in their laps and smiled. 

And there, halfway across the room and a row ahead of Draco, prominent on the end of an aisle, was Potter. 

He sat tall and his hands were crossed casually on top of his robes, possessive as if he’d always known he would wear them, as if they were his by right. The gesture made Draco’s lip curl. He wished he’d had that surety. 

Potter looked away from Shacklebolt, then, and licked his lips. His gaze darted around the room and settled on Draco, who started. He swallowed, and glanced away, then back. 

Potter nodded at Draco slowly, and then the corner of his lips curved into a smile. 

Draco blinked, convinced he was gaping at Potter, and then found that he was smiling back. 

Weasley leaned around Potter’s shoulder and, spying Draco, frowned at him. He sent a sharp look towards Potter, and Draco looked away. 

He looked down at his Auror robes - _his_ robes, it still seemed unbelievable – and kept smiling. He curled his fingers tight and grinned. 

-|-

A week later, Potter showed up on the doorstep of the Manor. 

They had all been given a month off between graduation and their first real assignments, and Draco had been at a loss as to what to do with himself. He’d been in the library, staring blankly up at the shelves (pitted with dark holes, since the Ministry had come through and taken their share of the books) when the wards had gone off and alerted him to his visitor. 

Draco stood stiffly in the doorway, knowing that it was too late to slam the door in Potter’s face. 

Potter looked well, if tense. His robes were new and stiff, plain and black. His eyes glinted, fierce and green, above the collar. Draco couldn’t stop staring at him. 

“Going to invite me in?” Potter demanded, lifting his chin, but Draco could hear the waver in Potter’s tone, so he let him in. 

Potter paused in the hall as Draco closed the door, dim light filtering down from the high windows upon him. He glanced around, undoubtedly noting the dust gathering in the mouldings, the delicate cobwebs that split the light into a thousand panes, the leaves that had dried and shriveled and gathered in the corners. He turned back to Draco. 

Draco looked away and at the signs of the Manor’s disrepair, and then pushed past Potter. 

“After the war,” he began, “the Ministry took our house-elves. They took our money as well, and many of the antiques here. And they took my father.” Draco swallowed. “But you knew that.”

“Yeah,” Potter murmured behind him. 

Draco stopped and turned back, pulling his robes around himself and pushing his shoulders back. “Mother does not know cleaning spells, nor would she care to use them, as she is currently living in our house on the Riviera. And I have been away… in training.” He clenched his jaw shut. He shouldn’t be explaining all this to Potter – he had no obligation to explain why the Manor was a shambles. He walked away once more, heading for the parlour.

He knew Potter would follow.

Once there, Draco settled onto the sofa next to a side table that had been partially cleaned by Draco’s constant tendency to set his tea upon it. Potter sat carefully in a dusty armchair. 

Potter glanced around, folding and unfolding his hands into his lap, but Draco was not going to make him tea simply so that he might fondle it. He frowned at Potter and unclenched his jaw. 

“What do you want, Potter?” His voice came out wearier than he liked. 

Potter’s green eyes looked nervous. He licked his lips and Draco stared. 

“Why didn’t they take your house?”

“What?” Draco snapped, and glared into Potter’s eyes. 

“The Ministry— I mean, why didn’t they…” He seemed to realize the awkwardness of his position and trailed off. He clenched his jaw and leaned back in the chair. 

Draco raised his eyebrows at him and remained silent. If Potter wasn’t going to talk, or say only stupid things when he did speak, Draco wasn’t going to say anything to him either. 

He sat back on the sofa and brought out his wand. He flicked it at the side table and whispered a spell, and a small plate with biscuits spun into existence, pulled from the kitchen. Draco looked at it for a long moment before picking one of the biscuits up. 

He still felt grateful, every day, for all the little bits of magic he performed. He hadn’t realized how terrifying it was to have to live without magic, or believe that losing your magic might kill you. It made him wonder how the Muggles survived. 

Draco looked up and saw Potter eyeing his biscuit greedily. Did no one feed the man? Draco took a bite and chewed slowly. Well. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to give some food. Since he looked so pathetic, that was. 

Draco gestured with his wand towards the arm of Potter’s chair and another plate of biscuits whirled into being, tilting and balancing precariously on the fabric until, Draco watching it warily, it settled. He glanced at Potter again and saw that he was flushed, lips curling slightly into a smile. 

He looked at Draco, and the smile vanished. “Thank you,” he said. 

Draco nodded shortly in reply and picked his own plate up. He carried it to the window and settled into the seat there, curling his legs under him, pressing his side against the sun-warmed glass, and balancing the china and biscuits on his knees. 

He heard Potter crunch into one of the biscuits, but didn’t turn to look. He let the silence grow between them, become uncomfortable and stiff, and then fade to something easy. He stared out over the grounds until his eyes tired, then closed them. 

He didn’t even notice when Potter left. 

-|-

The next time Potter came, he found Draco in the garden. It was overgrown and weed-knotted. Draco was bent over one of the beds, robes off and piled upon the path in the afternoon heat, steadily exhausting himself in an attempt to clean the place up. 

Draco heard Potter’s steps behind him and straightened. His back tweaked and he pressed his hands into it as he turned. He grimaced at Potter. He thought he knew why Potter was there, but he wasn’t going to give in. He wouldn’t feed Potter again.

Potter had on a white cotton shirt and dark trousers, and his hair was limp, clinging to the side of his neck. Draco opened his mouth, but Potter spoke quickly, loudly over Draco.

“I’d like tea.”

Draco blinked. “Tea,” he repeated. 

Potter’s chin rose.

“Have you been outside today, then?” Draco gestured at the sun high above and hot air swirled through his fingers. “Or I suppose you’d want… iced tea.” He let his tone convey his disgust at the thought of the Muggle variation.

“Hot, preferably, and I hadn’t thought we’d drink it outside,” Potter said, the corners of his lips quirking up, and turned towards the Manor’s enclosed porch. 

“We?”

Potter stopped and glared at Draco. “Must you repeat everything I say?”

Draco’s eyes flashed and he replied, “Perhaps if you weren’t so infuriating, I wouldn’t have repeat for clarification.”

“Ha!” Potter laughed and his eyes sparked. He grinned at Draco fiercely. “Draco Malfoy, will you have tea with me?”

Draco reached down and grasped his robes, pulling them up and swinging them over his arm. Well, it couldn’t hurt. And Potter rarely asked for anything so nicely, in Draco’s experience. “I suppose,” he said, “I will have to make the tea?”

“I don’t know my way around, do I?”

Draco brushed past Potter and reached for the door. “I have a feeling you will before long,” he muttered. 

-|-

Draco could have set the Manor’s wards to exclude Potter, to force him to stay far away, but he found Potter’s presence obscurely comforting. It wasn’t that he liked Potter, but more that Potter was the only person who’d really talked to him since the end of the war. 

Pansy had fled to Europe as soon as the war ended, before the clean up had even truly begun. Draco had been so wrapped up in making sure his parents were safe that he’d missed her flight. He hadn’t seen the woman who’d been his best friend in years. Even their letters were stilted and vapid, since they both knew the Ministry intercepted their mail before it crossed England’s borders, and neither wanted to be arrested for writing something foolish. 

Travel for former Death Eaters – those who hadn’t been arrested and thrown into Azkaban – was restricted, and Pansy’s decision to flee the country was well done, in hindsight. If she’d waited any longer, she would have been just as trapped here as Draco was. Draco’s mother had had to pay a truly obscene amount of money to get out of the country after his father had been imprisoned, and Draco just couldn’t bear to leave it all behind like that.

Of course, there wasn’t much to leave behind. No one else wanted to speak with him. Even after the trails, when he’d been acquitted by his circumstances, every other witch and wizard he’d met had avoided him as if he had an illness – and it did not help, he supposed, that his hair shone silver and gold in the sunlight, marking him in a way he’d relished when he was younger but hated now. 

He’d fought his way into the Auror program, refusing to take no for an answer, and had finally achieved what he’d wanted, but what was left? He was exhausted. He’d been outcast from society for years. It seemed that half the new Aurors believed that Draco had tried to kill Potter and failed. He had graduated and been named an Auror, but he didn’t know if he would be able to do the job. He was so tired. He didn’t want to have to fight anymore. 

Who would he be partnered with? Would they hate him outright and insult him, or would they hide behind a mask of impersonal distance? 

Draco missed Hogwarts. He wanted to be thirteen again, with his friends gathered around him and laughing at his jokes and impersonations. He wanted his worries to be about finishing essays and casting spells, not the gnawing twist in the pit of his stomach whenever he considered walking into the Ministry in his red, starched Auror robes and having all those condescending gazes turned upon him. 

It made him want to stay in his garden forever, stay in the Manor forever and bring it back to life. He wanted to lavish time and kindness upon his mother and bring her back to life, back to the Manor that was home. But he couldn’t. He had to be brave. 

And now Potter, it seemed, wanted to be his friend. 

He wondered if Potter would brave the stares with him. Would Potter try to make that terrible knot of anxiety within him ease? Could he? 

-|-

Potter’s next visit found Draco inside the Manor. Potter ignored the front door and walked around through the garden instead. 

The wards let Draco know Potter was coming, but not where, so he wandered around the house for a good ten minutes before finding Potter scowling at the garden door, wand out. Draco raised his eyebrows and bit his lip, trying not to smile. Then he let Potter in. 

“Honestly,” Potter said, breezing past Draco with a rush of warm air. “It’s as if that damned door didn’t want me in this house.”

“Imagine that,” Draco said dryly. “Tea, I suppose.”

Potter turned and smiled. “Lovely.”

Draco flushed, a pleased feeling wrapping itself around his heart, and looked away. How could Potter do this sort of thing to him?

He flicked his wand to reset the wards and walked out of the room. “Come on, then!” he called back, and heard Potter’s steps hurrying to follow. 

When they reached the kitchen, Draco pointed to one of the cabinets. “Cups and saucers in there, and spoons that drawer. I’ll put the water on.” If Potter was going to steal all Draco’s tea and drink himself into a steeped stupor of some kind, he was going to have to help. 

Draco filled the kettle. As water poured from the tip of his wand and into the metal container, Draco frowned and glanced at Potter, something occurring to him. 

“Don’t you have someplace else to be?” he asked. 

Potter rummaged through the spoons in the drawer, picking one up and then setting it back. “No. Why? Where else would I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Potter. With your friends, possibly.”

Potter finally selected a spoon and laid it on the wooden counter. He scowled down into the drawer and began rummaging again. 

“Potter.”

“Yes! No, I mean, of course I want to be here. I mean…” He straightened and sighed. “I do have friends, Malfoy. It’s just that they’re very busy at the moment.” He bent back to the drawer. 

Draco snorted and tapped his wand, stopping the flow of water. “Last resort, am I?” He held the kettle over the center of the wooden table for a moment, then released it. It hovered over the surface, old spells keeping it balanced and in place so that it wouldn’t burn anything. He pulled out a chair and slumped down into it, feeling more tired than he had any right to. 

“Malfoy!” Potter spun and slammed a spoon down onto the counter. “I wish you would stop doing that. Things have changed between us. You showed me that when you saved my life. So don’t tell me that you’re nobody. I happen to think you’re very important.”

He carried the cups and spoons to the table and set them down with a clatter. Draco flushed, watching Potter, imagining him thinking of Draco as somebody, thinking of him at all. 

He cleared his throat and tapped the kettle. The water within seethed to a boil, and white steam began to coil from the spout. He lifted the handle and then paused. The leaves. Potter was so distracting that Draco had forgotten the leaves. 

“ _Accio tea_ ,” Draco said, and a cabinet snapped open, tin sailing from it and across the room toward him. He caught it deftly and reached for the kettle, determined to get this right, at least. 

As Draco shook the dried leaves carefully into the boiling water, Potter apparently decided that the silence was too much for him. 

“I’ve been so disappointed in the Cannons, lately.”

Draco ignored him. 

“They’re a terrible team, actually. I only liked them because Ron does, but I don’t understand how he could cheer for them. He has better taste than that; I know he does. I’m beginning to suspect that he chose to root for them because their uniforms match his hair.”

Draco snorted involuntarily and pushed one of the cups across the table towards Potter. Potter’s lips curled up into a smile and he leaned forward, continuing. 

“I think the Valkyries are a much better team, to be honest.”

Draco lifted the kettle and poured for Potter first, as would a proper host. He shouldn’t have to be doing this. The elves should have brought the tea, and his mother handed it out, balanced on her delicate fingers. But all that was gone – the elves freed and his mother fled, and Draco had a new life now. He had to get used to it. 

“Their players are much better quality, and they actually _win_ , unlike the Cannons. I’ve tried making Ron watch their matches but all he ever wants to see is the Cannons. And Hermione won’t help me – she doesn’t care about Quidditch at all, even less so now that she’s pregnant. Her priorities… have never been about Quidditch.”

Potter trailed a finger across the scarred wooden table – left over from when the elves had prepared meals in here – apparently lost in thought. 

“Potter,” Draco said. “Just drink your tea.” 

-|-

The next time Potter came, Draco had the tea ready. Or, at least, very much on the way to being ready. 

One morning when Potter hadn’t come, Draco had been terribly bored and the sun in the kitchen had been comforting. So he’d begun to read the cookbooks left over by the elves and discovered and very interesting and simple recipe for tea that he’d never heard of before. It was called Sun Tea and involved placing leaves in a pitcher of cool water, then letting that pitcher sit in the hot sunlight for several hours. 

So as Draco tended the garden, pulling weeds and overgrown roses out half by hand and half by magic, he let the tea steep on the steps of the Manor, slowly turning a rich shade of teak in the hot summer sun. 

He began to think he’d have to drink the tea himself when Potter arrived, the sun halfway down the slope of the sky. He didn’t hear the wards, or Potter’s steps. Potter simply fell to his knees beside Draco, rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and brandishing his wand. 

Draco startled and shifted back a step to watch him. Potter frowned at the bushes menacingly and jabbed his wand forward. 

“ _Reduc –_ “

“No!” Draco dove forward and seized his wand arm, yanking it upward. “You’ll kill them! You can’t just blast them away, you have to be careful!”

Potter looked at him for a long moment, then said, “All right,” and pulled his arm carefully toward himself. 

Draco released it, heart pounding. He watched Potter carefully. 

Potter bent down, laying his wand on the stone path and squinting at the tangled brush. He tilted his head to the side and leant forward onto his hands. He reached out and grasped a stem gently, pulling it towards him. He picked up his wand without looking and pointed it near the base of the stem. “ _Diffindo_ ,” he said softly, and the stem neatly tore apart. 

He pulled, and a long, thorny branch came free from the mess. Potter tossed in onto the stones and Draco flicked his wand out. 

“ _Incendio._ ” The fire licked up around the end of the branch and then flashed upwards roaring and consuming the leaves and thorns and green in a bright rush. Draco smiled at the ash that floated through the air and smiled. It felt wonderful to be able to do that again. 

Potter was leaning back in, reaching for another branch. He pulled it out a moment later and tossed it over his shoulder, and Draco’s wand flashed out before it hit the ground. Grey ash drifted to the stones of the path. 

So they worked, Potter slicing and Draco burning, until there was a great clean hole in the midst of the brush and both of them were sweating. As Potter leant down once more, knees in the dirt and shirt sticking to the curve of his back, Draco stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder. 

Potter shivered under him, tightening and straightening, and shifting slightly closer to Draco. Draco’s breath caught and he closed his eyes for a moment, then stepped away. 

“I think that’s enough for now,” he said. 

Potter looked up at him. “You’re never going to finish this garden, if you keep stopping.”

Draco sighed. “Potter. It’s late afternoon, the sun is going to set soon, and we’re both hot. Besides, it isn’t as if I have anything else to occupy my time with.” He bit down on his tongue. He was getting to be too comfortable with Potter. It was too easy to say things he shouldn’t. “I have tea,” he settled on.

Potter brightened visibly. “Yeah?” He pushed himself to his feet and groaned. He tugged at his shirtsleeves, stained with dirt and sweat, and grimaced. He turned toward the Manor, but Draco didn’t follow. 

He walked down the garden path instead and stopped by the pitcher of tea. It was a deep, lovely reddish brown, lit from behind by the weakening rays of the sun. “Potter!” he called, not wanting to have to fetch him when he got lost within the Manor. 

Draco frowned and crouched, thinking. He reached out to touch the glass pitcher, which was just barely warm, but by no means hot. He _could_ boil it, but the recipe had specifically called for ice. And since this Sun Tea appeared to be a Muggle invention…

He sighed. Already, Potter was bringing him down a new low. He pulled out his wand and swished it twice. Ice and glasses from the kitchen sailed out across the garden. The glasses settled into place, trembling, and the ice piled itself inside them. Draco sighed. At least, it he was going to do this, he’d do it right. 

Potter came down the path, calling, “Malfoy? Where are you?” as if a magical arrow would simply appear in response, pointing the way toward Draco. 

Draco stood and beckoned, and Potter walked over to him. 

“You said there was tea,” he said, sounding generally wounded. 

“Honestly, Potter,” Draco said, and gestured behind him. 

Potter stepped around him and exclaimed, “Oh! But I thought you didn’t like iced tea! Malfoy, you –“

Potter sounded bewildered, as if his world had just been altered, the order of the universe changed. Draco turned and raised an eyebrow at him. He waved his wand at the pitcher of tea, and it lifted off the stones and began to pour into the glasses. Potter bent and grasped one eagerly. The pitcher followed, wavering as it tried to finish filling the glass. 

Draco frowned as Potter lifted his glass, half laughed, then began to gulp the tea. He waited for the pitcher to fill his own glass and settle before picking it up. He took a sip, cautiously, and blinked, surprised. This iced tea – such a _Muggle_ thing – was surprisingly good. 

The flavors were slightly different, cold. They were sharper and cleaner, and the tea was more bitter. Draco took a long drink from his glass and lowered it. He glanced up. 

Potter smiled at him from over the rim of his own glass, then lifted it slightly in a kind of salute. “This is wonderful, Malfoy. Thank you.”

Draco drank again, hiding his smile behind the tint of the tea.

-|-

The wards rang out, startling Draco from his nap on the sofa. He stumbled to his feet and shook his head, trying to break the spell sleep had lain upon him. 

Potter. It had to be Potter. But why today? Potter hadn’t been planning to come – at least, Draco hadn’t expected him, although Potter’s visits had no discernable schedule. Yet Draco always knew, just knew, the days when Potter would drop by. 

Draco’s heart pounded in anticipation as he made for the garden door. 

He swung the door open when he reached it to find Potter cradling his hand close to his chest. “Your knob bit me!” he exclaimed, and glared viciously at the door Draco held open for him. The knob is question twisted slightly in Draco’s grip. 

Unaccustomed to Potter’s glares being directed at something other than him, Draco’s heart froze for a moment before he realized what had happened. Then he laughed, a sharp bark that quickly dissolving into giggling hilarity. He snapped a hand up to his face, covering it so that he couldn’t see Potter watch him laugh. He bent forward, snorting, and tried to control himself. 

“Well,” Potter said, amusement evident in his tone, “I suppose it is rather funny. Ow.”

Draco straightened, still smiling, and refused to look Potter in the eye. He stepped forward and reached out grasping Potter’s injured hand and pulling it gently toward him. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Potter hissed, and Draco squinted at Potter’s hand. 

It did look painful. The doorknob had apparently grown a mouth and bitten into the meaty muscles beneath Potter’s thumb. The flesh was red and swollen, blood seeping from numerous tiny punctures and seeping into the lines on Potter’s palm. Draco frowned down at it. He hoped the knob’s teeth weren’t poisoned. 

“Come in,” he said. “I’ll heal it.” He let Potter go and smacked the knob on the way inside, then watched it carefully lest it try that biting trick with him. It didn’t.

There were chairs on the solarium, arranged facing the windows and the gardens. They had been brought to the Manor by Draco’s mother and hadn’t been used since, but Draco noticed them anew as Potter walked inside. 

“Sit here,” he said, and pulled out his wand. 

Potter slumped into one of the chairs with his wrist draped over the arm, palm up and blood bright. Draco waved his wand at the other chair and it shifted closer, crawling on its short legs until it sat right next to Potter’s. 

Draco sat in it and leaned over Potter’s hand. He vanished the blood with his wand. “You could do this yourself, you know,” he said, pausing. Why was _he_ healing Potter?

“I’ve never been as good at this as you.” 

Draco looked up at that. Potter’s gaze was heavy, serious. He didn’t seem to be making fun of Draco, but it was so far from what Draco had been expecting Potter to say that he couldn’t help staring.

He began to look down again, lift his wand to the correct angle; he’d parted his lips when Potter reached out with his other hand, snagged Draco by the back of the next, and pulled him forward. 

“Hey –“ Draco got out before Potter covered his mouth with a kiss and silenced him. _Oh_. 

He was as warm as Draco remembered, and though the day was hot Draco curled his hand around Potter’s wrist and pulled him closer, balancing them both somewhere over the arms of their chairs. Potter shivered against him and licked Draco’s lips. 

Draco’s eyes slipped closed. He wanted more of this, more heat and tension, more pressure hot against him. Potter seemed inclined to oblige, as well, and the chair dug into Draco’s ribs as he was pulled closer and closer. 

The kiss deepened. What would Potter want next? Would he pull Draco over the arm and onto his lap? The thought made him shiver with anticipation. Would he lift Draco from the chair bring him out to the garden, kiss him again among the roses? Or would they remain here, Potter’s hand slipping into his clothes, under his shirt, undoing him piece by piece?

He could do anything to Draco, and Draco would let him. A cold wash of fear flooded him.

Draco drew back, breathless. He slipped a hand between them and pressed against Potter’s chest, pushing him back. 

Potter murmured, an aggrieved sound, and opened his eyes. 

“We can’t,” Draco said. “Don’t.”

Potter blinked at him, and his lips twisted downward. Draco tore his gaze away from them and looked up into Potter’s accusing glance. It caught and held him. 

“Why not?”

Draco flushed. How could Potter not know why they couldn’t do this? How could he think that something between them was possible? He and Potter were the antithesis of each other. The fact that they’d been able to talk so easily, for so long, was amazing in itself. 

“Malfoy,” Potter said, his tone cooling. “Why can’t we do this? You’ve been making me tea for weeks. You let me come around and help with the gardening and cleaning. You’ve even made a _Muggle_ recipe. How are we not working together? What’s preventing us from working? Because it seems to me that we’ve been dating for weeks, now.”

“Aha, no.” Draco’s laugh was strained, surprised. He hadn’t… imagined that Potter felt that way. “We haven’t been. Certainly not.”

What had they been doing, though? Potter had been coming round, and Draco had let him. He’d fed Potter and let him help and assumed that it had all just been one of Potter’s eccentricities, nothing more. He’d never made a move. 

That kiss, back in the wilderness, had been a mistake. He’d known it then and he knew it now. There was nothing in the future for them. They could never be together; they were too different. Draco lived in an entirely different world from Potter, and though it hurt to consider, he knew his evaluation was right. _They_ could never be. 

Potter’s grip on Draco tightened, but he yanked back, pulling away. He stood and tucked his wand away, watched Potter’s hand close around the bite on his hand and how the corners of his eyes flinched at the movement. He stepped away. 

“You should know better, Potter. I shouldn’t have to explain to you why this is impossible.”

Potter surged to his feet. “This isn’t impossible! The war is over, Malfoy! Things have changed.”

Then why did Draco feel so alone? Why was he forced to spend all his time in this dreadful Manor for fear of how others would look at him? “Not for me.” He put his hand up, blocking Potter’s advance. “You should leave.”

Potter stopped and his face twisted. He drew back. “You’re a fool, Malfoy. The entire world has moved on but you. And if you’re too much of a coward to see that, I don’t know why I should bother coming back.”

He spun and walked toward the door, shoving it open. It banged against the wall and Potter whirled back towards him. “But you know what, _Malfoy_?” he snarled. “You were right. We will never work together.”

Then he was gone, throwing himself through the door and striding through the garden. Draco watched until he saw Potter vanish abruptly, until he heard the echo of his Apparation. 

Then he turned away.

-|-

Draco sighed and trailed his finger around the rim of his teacup. It was chipped, just the tiniest bit, and the sharp edge nipped at his fingers as he went round and round. There were four days left before he had to report to the Ministry and take his first assignment. He hadn’t heard who his partner was to be, yet. 

He picked the cup up and swallowed, grimacing. Cold. 

He pushed up and walked to the window. The Manor grounds were not quite in bloom, but growing close. The trees were covered in half-spread, bright green leaves and the gardens were spotted with vivid flowers determinedly forcing their way up through the overgrown brush to bloom in the sun. 

And if the Ministry never contacted him? If they left him here to rot, their task done now that they’d allowed him to graduate? He ran a hand over his face. What if Potter never came back?

That struck an altogether different chord in Draco and he shuddered. He turned away from the morning sun and frowned at his tea, sitting pale and innocent in its cup, still cold. He never should have told Potter to go. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the warmth of Potter’s lips. 

With a snarl he slashed his wand at the tea, spelled it scalding, and strode across the room, sloshing tea over his knuckles as he snatched the cup up and drank it. He flinched and coughed. 

He really needed to find something to do with himself, so that he didn’t think maudlin thoughts like this. 

The Floo whooshed and flared, and Draco looked over at the fireplace. Lips parted in surprise, he watched Potter tumble out, barely catching himself before he fell nose-first into the floor. 

Potter glanced up, tossing his unruly hair out of his eyes with a flick of his head. Draco stared at him, wide-eyed and caught off guard. Potter looked at him for a long moment, silent and wary, then smiled softly. 

Draco smiled back, tentative, and Potter strode across the room towards him. Draco blinked took half a step back, and Potter thrust a parchment at him. 

“The owl just came.”

Potter was back. He’d returned though Draco had thrown him out and insulted him, he come back to the Manor and the look in his eyes was _anything_ but hate. Draco’s heard pounded faster and he swallowed.

“With… what?” Draco had honestly no idea what Potter was talking about. Seeing him had put all coherent thought from his mind, apparently. 

“The assignment letter!” Potter thrust the parchment at him once again. Draco took it from him, but didn’t open it. 

“Why would I want to see your assignment, Potter?” His hands twitched around the letter, threatening to tear it to pieces. 

Potter’s eyes sparked and he stepped closer, grasping the letter and Draco’s hands at once. “Honestly,” he said, and lifted Draco’s up between them. “Just read it.”

Draco’s chin rose, and he was on the point of refusing out of spite when he realized that he didn’t care. Potter could lord his privileged pairing with his best friend Weasley over Draco and remind Draco that he no longer had any friends, and Draco would never let him know how much it hurt. He cast Potter a cold glance that made him take a step back, and unfurled the parchment. 

Underneath the Auror letterhead it read:

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_It is our privilege to have you as a new member of our team of highly trained witches and wizards known as the Aurors. Congratulations on all of your accomplishments._

_We wish to inform you that you have been partnered with __ Draco Malfoy__. This partnership will last for a minimum of one year, pending evaluation…_

Draco stopped reading there. Slowly, he lowered the paper and looked over it, into Potter’s unblinking gaze. Potter’s mouth twitched, looking halfway between nervousness and a smile, and Draco lowered it all the way. 

“Is this a joke?”

“No!” Potter shouted the word as if shocked. “No, no! I just got the letter this morning, and well…”

“Well, what?” If Potter wanted out of the partnership, he’d have to go the Head of the department. It wasn’t Draco’s fault that they’d been paired. He frowned at Potter. 

Potter frowned back. “Don’t look at me like that, Malfoy. I _requested_ you.”

“What?”

Potter rolled his eyes then, looking five years younger. “I went to the Head and requested you as my partner. I still have some pull and though I don’t like to –“

“Why?” Draco asked, cutting him off. 

Potter blinked at him, eyes large behind his glasses. “You saved my life, Draco. Admittedly, I put the request in before you threw me out, but I won’t back down on it. Almost anyone would save my life because I’m _Harry Potter_ , but with you I know that wasn’t it. You didn’t save me because of who I am, but because you thought I deserved saving.” He flushed and looked down. “So thank you.”

Draco let the letter drop. _Potter_ was saying _thank you_. It was unexpected and unfathomable, completely mad. Draco felt suspended between one emotion and the next floating and formless. He opened his mouth to reply to Potter, and then closed it again. 

Potter glanced up at him and half smiled. “You don’t have to look like that, I mean, I know it’s unusual for me to be saying this and we haven’t got along, but I do mean it…” He trailed off and sighed. “Fine. If you don’t want this partnership, if you still don’t want me, that’s fine. I’ll let the Head know and have us switched. Not like anyone would object to working with me, now would they?” He turned away, his smile turned sickly. “I won’t come back here.”

Draco released the parchment, let it drift to the floor, and stepped forward, grasping Potter’s arm and pulling him half round. 

“Stop,” he said, and Potter did. His mouth was tight and something shone in the corners of his eyes. “Look, Potter,” Draco continued. “I don’t know why you did this, but…”

Potter turned back to face him fully. “Honestly, Malfoy, if you don’t want to be with me, just tell me. I’ll understand.” He looked very calm. 

Draco didn’t know whether he wanted to partner with Potter, to be honest. It was such a big decision – one he’d thought the Ministry would make for him and he’d follow along with, suffer through. To have Potter give him this boon, give him a partnership that Draco knew he’d survive… Or perhaps not. He and Potter were known, after all, for their fights. 

Suddenly that night came back to Draco, when they’d both been resting against a tree and Draco had been so cold, and he’d kissed Potter. He didn’t know why he thought of it except that he felt cold with fear – he’d been pushing the memory back as madness and attempting to forget it for weeks. 

Draco’s hand was still on Potter’s arm. He realized that and flushed. But he didn’t pull back. “I –“ He couldn’t seem to get any further, though, and Potter looked so serious and contained behind his spectacles, that Draco simply stepped closer. 

He wasn’t touching Potter, aside from his hand, just so close, too close. He felt Potter’s breath brush against his cheek and tickle under his collar. A shiver worked its way up his Draco’s spine, and he licked his lips. 

Potter placed his hands on Draco’s chin, ghosting gently across the soft skin under his ears. 

“Okay,” Potter said, and leant forward. 

The kiss was soft, a gentle brush of lips that made Draco tighten his hand around Potter’s arm in anticipation. He licked over Potter’s lips, and Potter opened to let him in, mouth curling into a smile. Draco nipped them, gently, and Potter made a wounded noise. 

“No call for that,” Potter whispered. 

“Oh?” Draco said, pulling back so that he could kiss the corner of Potter’s lips and the rough curve of his jaw. 

“I’m trying…mmm.” Potter tilted his head up and let Draco kiss down his neck. “To be nice, here.”

Draco reached up and began to work the buttons on Potter’s collar free. “Ha! You’ve never been nice before; why start now?”

“All right, then,” Potter said, and wrapped his arms around Draco, pulling their bodies tight together. 

Draco felt Potter’s hardness against his thigh and pushed Potter back, walking him towards the sofa and following closely. He pushed until Potter’s calves hit the edge and he tumbled backwards, falling onto the cushions and laughing. 

He smiled up at Draco, open and bright, and tossed his head to get his hair out of his eyes. Draco stopped, stunned by how amazing he was. Draco hadn’t seen a smile like that in years; he could barely remember an honest smile directed at him, aside from his parents’ tearful ones on the day the Dark Lord had been killed. 

At Potter’s hand. 

Potter reached up and Draco let himself be pulled down to sit on the edge of the sofa. He shoved away the nervousness churning queasily within him and took a deep breath. He could do this. 

He kissed Potter again, and again, working his way down Potter’s neck until he groaned. He pulled open Potter’s collar and robes, forced them aside to lay on the velvet of the sofa. Potter wriggled up, twisting his shoulders and working his arms free, and then reached for Draco, opening his own robes and pushing them down. 

Draco sucked at Potter’s nipple, laving at it gently and sucking the soft, salty taste off Potter’s skin. Potter groaned and his voice thrummed through his body, into Draco’s lips and forcing him to close his eyes for a long moment. 

When he looked again, Potter’ fingers were carding through his hair. He tugged gently, every now and then, and Draco twisted into the sensation. 

Draco began undoing the buttons of his collar with one hand as he moved down Harry’s body. He brushed his nose gently through the soft hair on Potter’s chest, leading down towards his cock. He kissed the delicate skin over Potter’s belly button and licked along the lines of his muscles. Soon Potter was sighing above him and his cock was hard. 

Draco abandoned his own shirt half-undone when he reached Potter’s trousers and worked on the buttons of his fly. One by one, they came undone and Draco nosed against the soft fabric of Potter’s pants. 

Potter’s hands in his hair urged Draco down, faster, but Draco resisted. He glanced at the straining bulge in Potter’s pants, stained dark at its apex, and half smiled. His own cock throbbed lazily in his trousers, sending curls of desire through Draco and making him desperate. He struggled to maintain control. 

Draco lifted himself slightly, hovered over Potter’s hard cock, still hidden, and breathed out. Potter shuddered under him, thighs clenching and hips jerking up towards Draco. 

Draco laid a hand on Potter’s hipbones and pushed him back down. He swallowed and reached for Potter’s pants. They were made from some kind of soft fabric that stretched and yet felt completely unmagical to Draco’s fingers – Muggle, no doubt – and they pulled easily away from Potter’s cock. Draco pushed them to down to Potter’s knees and leant forward. 

Potter smelt amazing – musky and rough and everything that Draco had imagined – and as Draco stilled, lips close to the head of Potter’s cock and yet not touching, Potter hissed. He words were mangled and hoarse, and Draco didn’t understand a word, but he smiled. 

He sighed, his breath shuddering only slightly, over Potter’s cock and Potter said, “Oh,” very faintly up above. 

Draco licked, then, and _oh_ , Potter was right to say. He tasted amazing – unusual and unlike Draco had ever had before. It was a thick taste, musky and salty and nearly off-putting, but so much like Potter that Draco didn’t care. He swallowed the head of Potter’s cock and reached out, grasping the shaft. 

As he licked and sucked alternately, careful with his teeth, he began to gain a rhythm. His own cock was hard and untouched, and it wanted friction, to press and grind into something, anything. Draco moved with the sensation, bobbing over Potter and swallowing around him. 

Potter made incoherent sounds above him, one hand fisted in Draco’s hair and the other Draco didn’t know where. He closed his eyes and tightened his grip, just slightly. Potter’s muscles shivered and his breaths came sharper. Draco sucked harder, moved deeper to take in more of Potter’s cock, and Potter responded with the most thrilling sounds. 

He’d never known he could make Potter sound like that. Draco felt Potter tremble, his muscles tighten and convulse, and he pulled back. 

“Ah!” Potter cried, and tensed. 

He came, then, Draco hand still around his cock and head nearby. He spurted onto his stomach and a few drops hit Draco’s cheek. Draco pulled at Potter’s cock as he settled, felt it begin to soften in his hand, and then let it go. He sat back onto his heels and pushed his hair out of his eyes. 

He reached up and wiped off his cheek. 

Potter looked entirely ridiculous – knees spread wide, face and chest flushed, one hand fisted in the cushions of the sofa and the other hanging limply off the side, gaze hazy as he watched Draco through the dark rims of his glasses – and Draco loved it. 

Draco stared at him and curled his fingers into the robes around his feet. Potter’s hand stretched and opened towards him. 

“Well,” he said, his voice unaccountably hoarse. 

Draco took his hand, and Potter smiled, then pulled him up and on top of him. Draco groaned at the sudden pressure on his cock and Potter kissed him, soft and open, teasing with his tongue. 

Draco leant down into him and closed his eyes. 

-|-

Potter’s arm was across Draco’s chest, his body pressing against Draco’s back. Draco twisted back and Potter’s face mashed into his neck. He murmured and Draco realized that he was still asleep. 

Draco reached up and over his shoulder, brushing his fingers gently through Potter’s fringe. It curled at the ends and the lights shining through it turned it a deep red at the tips. 

This was mad and foolish. _This cannot be_ , Draco’s mind whispered, but for once he shoved the thought away. 

He threaded his fingers through Potter’s hair, rubbing small circles across the soft skin of his scalp until Potter’s murmuring turned to a pleased groan. His lips curled against Draco’s neck and Potter shifted, sliding his hips against Draco. 

Draco felt Potter’s cock begin to harden against the curve of his arse and pushed his hips back into it. Potter’s breath huffed across his neck and Draco shivered. 

Potter shifted his arm, moving down, hand trailing over Draco’s chest and across his stomach. Draco hitched his hips and Potter’s hand slipped into his pants, wrapping around his swiftly hardening cock. He groaned. 

Potter’s hand was hot, and his palm dry. Calluses rubbed against Draco’s cock as Potter hand shifted and gained a better grip, providing the friction Draco wanted. Draco’s hand twisted deeper into Potter’s hair. 

Potter began to move his hand, slowly, too slowly, the muscles in his arm flexing against Draco’s side. He felt himself holding his breath. His cock hardened fully and his thighs trembled, straining to move, but he forced them still. 

_Ah_. Potter’s finger brushed over the head of Draco’s cock, shifting the foreskin, and Draco’s hips jerked of their own volition. His breath grew ragged and sharp, and his eyes slid closed. He felt heat gather in his cock and around it, connected to Potter’s fingers. 

Potter licked a hot, wet stripe licked up the back of his neck, behind his ear, and Draco groaned. “Oh.” He shuddered. Potter’s hand moved faster, gaining rhythm. He tugged up Draco cock, swept his fingers over and around the head, and then moved back down. When time he reached the base, he squeezed slightly. 

Draco waited for that, each time, balanced between the hot breaths behind his ear and the hand around his cock, playing with that sensitive skin. 

Draco turned back, twisting his head to press his cheek to Potter’s lips so that their breaths mingled. He felt Potter’s hips begin to hitch against his, moving in time with his hand, and Draco forced himself into the same rhythm. 

Soon they were moving together, small shifts that sent jolts of pleasure up Draco’s spine and through his cock, stealing his breath. Pressure built within him, sharp and powerful. He arched into it, straining, and Potter’s grip settled, tightened. Draco came with shuddering force, pleasure sweeping through him and his muscles clenching. 

Then his climax let him go, and he relaxed back against Potter. Potter was stiff, shuddering against him, and then he too relaxed. 

Draco was tired. Exhaustion swept over him and dragged at his eyelids. He felt boneless and drained. Potter’s hand fell from his limp cock and curled around his chest one more, tugged him gently closer. 

Draco nudged in against Potter’s chest, legs coiled together and as close to his warmth as possible, and let his eyes fall closed and the bright midday light playing across the rug fall away.

-|-

Draco woke suddenly. He stared up into the afternoon light flooding the sitting room and relaxed slowly. He ached everywhere. 

_Alone_.

The muscles in his jaw were sore, and ached when he opened his mouth. His tongue tasted horrid as well and he grimaced. He rolled over onto his side and curled up, sliding slowly off the sofa and pushing himself up. 

He was naked, his skin covered with the remnants of Potter’s come. 

His skin was cold, but the room was warm. He reached up and over his head, stretching out, and then down to pull his robe off the floor. He swung it round his shoulders and pulled it close to cover him. 

Potter was nowhere to be found. His clothes were gone and Draco couldn’t even feel his warmth in the air. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and bit his lip. 

His teacup – from this morning, only this morning – was lying on the floor on its side. The rug was stained under it. He sighed and bent down, picking it up and cradling it in his hands. 

Potter was gone. 

Even with his robe around him Draco felt cold, chilled through. He thought about what they’d done and felt dizzy. He felt hot inside, filled with a latent kind of pleasure that made him want to smile, but confronted by the harsh reality of Potter’s absence he felt ill, slightly ashamed and off. 

How could he work with Potter with this between them? It had been a mistake, a terrible misstep that Draco would not be repeating. He regretted it already. 

He would have to go in to the Ministry and see the Head, tell him that there were irreconcilable differences between him and Potter and plead for another partner. He could only hope the Head would temporarily forget Draco’s history and listen to him. 

He turned the teacup over in his hands. He should take it down to the kitchen. Then he could shower. 

He fastened the front of his robe and went down the back stairs, small and turning, that led directly down to the kitchen. The floor was cool under his bare feet and he focused on the sensation, forcing away thoughts of all else. 

He paused between two steps, foot extended, as he smelled something unusual. The scent of butter and garlic was drifting up the stairs. He hadn’t smelt anything other than the bitter staleness of dust in the Manor in a long time.

Draco picked up his robes and hurried down the stairs, pushed through the kitchen door. There he stopped and gaped, staring at Potter, bent over the stove and tapping his wand against the burner. The flame flared and guttered against the bottom of a small pan. 

Potter’s hair was mussed – more so than usual - and Draco wanted to run his fingers through it. Potter was fully clothed, but there was something about the wrinkles in his shirt and trousers, the faint smudges on his glasses, which spoke eloquently of debauchery. 

So, Potter had stayed after all. Draco walked forward and placed the teacup down onto the wooden table in the center of the kitchen. It clinked, and Potter whirled. 

“Oh,” he said, flushed and startled. 

Draco resisted the urge to draw his robes tighter around him. Potter smiled awkwardly. 

“I know it’s nearly dinnertime, but I sort of figured…well, all I could find were eggs and spices, so I’ve made omelets.” 

Draco stepped close to Potter and frowned over his shoulder. “Are you hungry?” he asked. He felt like he was floating, and warmth was spreading through him. 

“Yeah,” Potter said, and blinked at him. “Aren’t you?”

Draco turned away. “Yeah,” he supposed he was. 

He walked to the wooden table and laid a hand on it. “Why?” he asked, his mind unwilling to let him accept his pleasure and let go of everything else. 

“Well, I said I was hungry, didn’t I?” Potter seemed vaguely annoyed. 

“No.” Draco turned to look at him. “Why did you…sleep with me? Why did you ask for me as your partner? It doesn’t seem like abject cruelty, and you’re not known for that anyway, Potter, but I can’t imagine why you’d want to be with _me_.” His words shook, betraying far more than he intended. 

“And why not?” Potter snapped. His lips pursed, and he frowned. “Why shouldn’t I want _you_? Malfoy, I know life hasn’t been easy for you, and I know that most of your friends are either in Azkaban or God knows where. I wish I could have gotten them all a reprieve, but I couldn’t. Instead I managed to save you. And then you saved me.” Potter stepped forward, gesturing towards Draco. “You saved my life a few weeks ago. We were both in a mad situation, something we couldn’t have planned for, and you’re the one who saved my life.”

“It was just luck,” Draco said. “And without you, where would I be? Dead in a field? In Azkaban? You can’t lay this on me, Potter.”

“Lay it on you?” Potter laughed, a short bark. “I’m hardly _laying_ anything on you. I’m giving you the credit you deserve. You saved my life when you had no reason to, and Malfoy, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Draco opened his mouth, then stopped. What could he say to that? Draco couldn’t stop thinking about those few days, either – Potter leaning on him, limp and ill against his shoulder, the sick rattle in his chest that Draco had _felt_ as they’d kissed, and the scent of Potter’s curry wrapping around him. In a strange way, he wanted those days back, though they’d been very fraught. 

“Draco.” Potter’s voice was soft, but Draco jerked and looked up at him. “I’ve said thank you, but the truth is, I can’t stop thinking about you. I…I _want_ you.” He flushed and lifted his chin, gritting his teeth. 

Could he trust Potter? Could he believe Potter when he said that he wanted Draco, that he essentially meant no harm? He wanted to. It was just that he was so lonely, always so cold. 

“Yeah,” Draco said, taking in a deep breath, and then letting it go, “I want you, too.”

> All night I have slept with you  
> next to the sea, on the island.  
> Wild and sweet you were between pleasure and sleep,  
> between fire and water.

> Perhaps very late  
> our dreams joined  
> at the top or at the bottom,  
> up above like branches moved by a common wind,  
> down below like red roots that touch.

> Perhaps your dream  
> drifted from mine  
> and through the dark sea  
> was seeking me  
> as before,  
> when you did not yet exist,  
> when without sighting you  
> I sailed by your side,  
> and your eyes sought  
> what now-  
> bread, wine, love, and anger-  
> I heap upon you  
> because you are the cup  
> that was waiting for the gifts of my life.

> I have slept with you  
> all night long while  
> the dark earth spins  
> with the living and the dead,  
> and on waking suddenly  
> in the midst of the shadow  
> my arm encircled your waist.

> Neither night  
> nor sleep could separate us.

> I have slept with you  
> and on waking, your mouth,  
> come from your dream,  
> gave me the taste of earth,  
> of sea water, of seaweed,  
> of the depths of your life,  
> and I received your kiss  
> moistened by the dawn  
> as if it came to me  
> from the sea that surrounds us.

> NIGHT ON THE ISLAND ~ Pablo Neruda


End file.
